Intimates
by rahleeyah
Summary: Inspired by a tumblr drabble prompt ages ago - the clothesline. Over the course of several sunny afternoons in the garden, Lucien discovers something unexpected on the clothesline, and reconsiders the woman who shares his life.
1. Chapter 1

_1 December 1958_

Mrs. Beazley did not approve of smoking.

In point of fact, Mrs. Beazley did not approve of smoking, or drinking, or fornication. She did not entirely approve of Protestants and she did not suffer fools. Mrs. Beazley frowned at any sort of excess, material or gustatorial. She had no sympathy for sons who went decades without speaking to their fathers, and even less sympathy for doctors who spent their Sunday mornings in bed nursing hangovers rather than sitting in the pews at mass. In short, Mrs. Beazley did not approve of Lucien Blake, not in any way, shape, or form.

Goading her had been something of a sport for him, in the beginning. She was a beautiful woman but hard, brittle, made of steel. Everything about Lucien, from his clothes - _too flashy - _to his beard - _too rough - _to his diction - _too posh - _to his bearing - _too proud_ \- bothered her in some way, and having discovered that there was no way to please her Lucien had instead indulged in an almost childlike desire to ruffle her feathers. Over the last month she had not raised her voice to him once, but he was certain there were new lines forming on her delicate face courtesy of the many times her eyebrows had jumped toward her hairline in distress at his antics.

Now that the reality of his father's impending demise had sunk in, however, such distractions held little charm. He had been civil to Mrs. Beazley for the last three days running, and she in turn had been quiet and withdrawn. In point of fact he'd hardly seen her since the night his father was loaded in the ambulance and taken to hospital. Thomas Blake would not be returning home, even now lingered in a strange sort of purgatory, unable to speak, unable to move, hardly opening his eyes. The doctors had sent Lucien home earlier in the day, encouraged him to get some rest and allow his father to do the same, though their pitying expressions told Lucien quite plainly that they believed the old man was not long for the world.

It seemed cruel, somehow, that Lucien had finally found his way home at last, only to discover his father mute and all but paralyzed. So much time he had wasted, so many opportunities missed, and soon the old man would be gone, and all that would remain to Lucien was grief and guilt.

_No different from how I've spent the last sixteen years, _he thought glumly, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

Mrs. Beazley did not approve of smoking, and so out of deference to her sensibilities Lucien had banished himself to the back garden. Soon to be his back garden, he realized as he wandered through the soft grass. His garden, his house, his practice - if he wanted it - and, most troubling of all, his housekeeper, for Lucien would inherit Mrs. Beazley along with the rest when his father finally passed.

And in his heart, he knew that she would likely prove the most troublesome bequest of all.

The house and all of his father's effects could be sold, the practice shuttered, and Lucien could make his way back to London, if he so chose. Likely the inestimable Mrs. Beazley could find employment elsewhere; no one had ever spoken an unkind word about her in his hearing, and in point of fact it seemed that everywhere he went people inquired after her health and sang her praises. She was a pillar of the community, Mrs. Beazley, as much if not more than Thomas Blake himself. No, Lucien did not worry about her ability to fend for herself, should he leave town; she would be all right on her own, and he could easily provide an attractive severance for her. In his heart, though, Lucien knew that Mrs. Beazley would not approve of him dividing up his father's estate and leaving town as fast as possible, and he knew that her displeasure would follow him wherever he went like a baleful dog, a constant reminder that he had, yet again, disappointed a beautiful woman.

To complicate his situation still further, there was no job waiting for him in London, should he chose to return; a soldier turned spy turned vagabond, he would make a poor surgeon now, with his trembling hands and his penchant for drink. What could he possibly hope to make of himself, out there in the world? He did not know the answer, but he did know that a ready-made life was waiting for him here in Ballarat. A home, a profession - he had already assisted Matthew Lawson twice, serving as police surgeon in his father's stead, and old Mrs. Clasby had popped round to see him about her heart - a housekeeper to look after him, and a young lodger to dispel any rumors of impropriety between himself and Mrs. Beazley. Patrick Tyneman had even sorted a membership at the Colonists' for him. It was all done, the wheels already in motion, even now while his father still drew breath.

It would be a kind of death, he thought, to linger in this place. To become all that he hated, to assume his father's mantle for himself. All his life he had railed against his father, his coldness, his patrician ways, his puritanical community, and now Lucien stared up at that house and felt as if he were gazing at his own coffin, primed and ready to accept him.

_And yet. _Mrs. Beazley was a fine cook, and Mattie was a delightful young woman whose company brought him comfort while he could not be with his own child, while he did not know if she yet lived. Danny was always getting into mischief and Matthew Lawson was always keen to sit at the Pig & Whistle and grumble over a pint, and Lucien could not deny that the call of a steady income, a place to call home, and a ragtag band of people to share it with was as alluring as a siren to him now, as his fiftieth birthday loomed closer and the certainty that his family was lost to him forever solidified day by day. _This would not be such a bad place to die, _he told himself. _Changi would have been worse. _

Discreetly - for even though Mrs. Beazley was otherwise occupied he felt her gaze everywhere he went - he dropped his cigarette in the grass and snuffed it out with the toe of his shoe before lighting up another. His feet began to carry him off again as he paced restlessly round the perimeter of the garden, thinking morose thoughts about the endless marching of time. Before he realized it, his steps had led him to the clothesline where his makeshift family's laundry fluttered in the light breeze beneath the warm summer sun, and he stood for a time, staring at it.

Strange, he thought, how something as simple a clothesline could carry with it such significance. Three sets of posts, and three long lengths of twine, and row after row of neat wooden clips, and there hung all the little pieces that made each of them who they were. There were his white shirts, and undershirts, and trunks, and socks, all in a row; he had been perturbed, in the beginning, to think of Mrs. Beazley washing his underthings, but she had brooked no argument, had been unwavering in her conviction that the laundry was her purview, every stitch of it. Her practicality had eased his squeamishness, somewhat, but still, the thought of Mrs. Beazley with her hands on his trunks - for any purpose - set his mind to wandering down a strange, not altogether unwelcome path.

She was, after all, a beautiful woman.

_A beautiful woman who hates you, who would laugh in your face if you praised her. _

He turned his attention then to the ladies' things, trying to sort out whose were whose. The trousers and the little red dress and the flower-patterned intimates were Mattie's, he thought. He smiled at the sight of them; she was a bright, hopeful girl, though her sheltered life had left her a bit naive in the ways of the world. That naiveté was fading, day by day; she was reading Lucien's books, now, and scribbling constantly to a suitor off in London, and the way she teased Danny carried with it a rebellious edge, albeit one that reminded Lucien more of his daughter when she was small, pushing the boundaries and watching her mother out of the corner of her eye, wondering how much leniency she would be allowed. Mattie's clothes were bright, and cheerful, and spoke of youth, and it was that youth, swerving from innocence to courage and back again, always on the edge of some grand discovery, that had brought a liveliness to Lucien's days he had sorely been lacking before her.

The rest of the clothes, he supposed, most have belonged to Mrs. Beazley. There were her stiff, straight skirts - _Christ, _but that woman's skirts seemed to have been designed specifically to drive him mad. It was quite cruel, he thought, that a woman could be blessed with a figure as fine as Mrs. Beazley's, and yet also possess a heart so determined to think the worst of him. He should not admire the flare of her hips or the curve of her bum, but it was hard not to notice, when everyday he found himself in close proximity to her.

A sudden suspicion rose in the back of his mind, and so Lucien tucked his cigarette between his teeth and approached the line, glancing once over his shoulder to make sure he was properly alone before his investigation began.

It seemed strange to him that Mrs. Beazley, who otherwise was not possessed of an ounce of vanity, should choose to dress in manner that flattered her figure so deliberately. Lucien's examination of the skirt closest to hand proved the right of it; she had made the thing herself, for there was no label, nor any trace of one having been cut out, and the skirt - all of her skirts - fit her too well to have been purchased off the rack. And wasn't that curious, he thought, that she had made this thing herself, had chosen, quite intentionally, to emphasize rather than diminish her own attractiveness.

He made to step away, intent on finishing his cigarette before going in search of his supper, but something else on the clothesline caught his eye, something that had the breath catching in his throat in a moment.

It was a single pair of old, rather faded satin knickers. They had probably been bright white, pristine even, once, but now they bore a faint patina of age. The seams showed some evidence of having been neatly repaired, and the fabric was very nearly transparent in places. Perhaps they were a particular favorite, he mused, worn so often that eventually time took its toll, or perhaps - more likely, given Mrs. Beazley's rather modest means - she simply did not have very many, and so endeavored to make what she had last as long as possible. Lucien very nearly reached out to touch them, but then it all came crashing down on him, where he was, what exactly he was looking at, what purpose they served, _where _they served that purpose, and he very nearly swallowed his cigarette, choking on a puff of smoke in his haste to escape.

From a more respectable distance he considered those knickers, and the strange sense of melancholy they instilled in him. Mrs. Beazley made her own clothes, and of those she did not have many; Lucien was fairly certain he could rattle off an accounting of her entire wardrobe from memory, and he'd only known her for a month. Her knickers were old and worn, and perhaps most distressing of all, they were almost depressingly utilitarian. No bright colors or patterns or modern cuts for Mrs. Beazley, no adventure or drama or frivolity, no lace or silk. Just plain, old, and rather tired looking knickers. She lived alone in a small room at the top of the stairs, a perpetual guest in her employer's home, with no one but a girl and an old widower to look after - and now, of course, Lucien himself. He did not know anything at all about her life before his arrival, he realized as he puffed pensively on his cigarette; he knew that her husband was dead, but he did not know when or how or why. He knew she still bore the man's name and wore his ring proudly, but he could not, for the life of him, recall having ever heard her speak his name. The way she interacted with Danny and Mattie had made him think she must have children of her own, but she had not spoken to him of them, either, if in fact they existed. _Such a small life_, he thought sadly. _No bigger than my own._

"Everything all right, Doctor Blake?" a cool voice called from over his shoulder, and he spun on his heel to find himself facing a familiar, curious stare beneath a single delicately arched eyebrow.

"As well as can be expected," he answered in a tone of forced cheerfulness, and as he spoke Mrs. Beazley's bright grey-blue eyes followed the progress of the cigarette in his hand, and his heart sank, as he realized he had been caught. Just another misstep, then. One of many. "And how are you this fine afternoon?"

"I'm well, thank you," she answered primly. On her hip she carried a laundry basket, and having dispensed with the niceties she made her way to the clothesline at once and began to gather up the laundry.

"In the future if you could smoke on the other side of the garden, that would be a help, Doctor Blake," she called from amid the rows of shirts and skirts and intimates.

"I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Beazley," he called back, feeling properly chastised. Likely all those fresh-laundered clothes now smelled faintly of smoke, and he did feel a bit bad about it.

Her head popped up from over the clothesline and he found himself staring into her face, taking note of the rise of her cheekbones, the fullness of her lips, the beautiful, almost indescribable color of her eyes. She really was a lovely woman, but as he looked at her a strange thought floated across his mind and he had to drop his gaze and chide himself for wondering which pair of knickers she was wearing today, and whether they were in a better state than the ones he'd seen. He rather hoped so; she was a fine strong woman, Mrs. Beazley, and she deserved more, he felt, than what she had.

"You should call me Jean," she said, and his gaze snapped back up to her face at once. Her cheeks colored faintly, as if she could hardly believe she'd had the gall to tell him such a thing, but she squared her shoulders and faced him resolutely. "If you're going to stay on here, well, I just thought -"

"That's lovely, thank you, Jean," he answered warmly. "And you should call me Lucien. Doctor Blake is my father."

She smiled at him, a bit sadly, and then went back to her work, and suddenly the state of his future seemed a bit brighter to Lucien than it had a moment before. This life would not be so bad, he told himself, and if he were careful, it might actually go quite well for him. And this, he felt, was the perfect moment to start, here in the garden on a sunny afternoon. He did not know much at all about Mrs. Beazley - _Jean - _but he had always been a quick student.

He dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out with his shoe, and then approached her with his hands in his pockets.

"Tell me, Jean," he said as he drew near. "Do you have any children?"


	2. Chapter 2

_17 May 1959_

The weekend had been bright and warm for May, and Lucien was determined to enjoy the sunshine as long as it lasted. Jean had left him that morning, gone off to Sacred Heart to sit for mass, though she did not frown at him as she once might have done, to see him lounging at the kitchen table in his robe instead of following along in her wake like a chastised puppy. No, she had not frowned, or scolded, or otherwise passed judgment upon him for his lack of observance to the faith he'd been born in; she had smiled, and poured him a cup of tea and passed him a plate of bacon, and wished him _good morning_ on her way out the door.

And it was, he thought, a rather wonderful morning. A long, lazy, indolent sort of morning, made for idleness and respite, and so the moment Jean departed he had taken his tea and the morning paper and gone to sit on the lounge in the back garden. There was little of interest to him in the Courier this morning, however, and so he had abandoned all pretense of reading it and crossed his arms behind his head, closed his eyes and let his mind wander to all sorts of pleasant places.

Six months had passed, since his father died, and in that time Lucien's life had changed so much that he was certain his younger self would not recognize the elder. Installed in his father's house, seeing to his father's patients, taking drinks at the Colonists' and making nice with Mrs. Beazley; these were all things he could never have imagined himself undertaking, a half a year before. And yet now he found that day by day he was settling in, growing more accustomed to the pace of life in Ballarat, accepting it, even enjoying it in parts.

It was quite fun, he thought, helping Matthew Lawson to solve his mysteries. Well, perhaps not _fun; _it had not been fun, when Danny was bitten by that snake and nearly lost to them, had not been fun when he'd discovered his oldest friend was now a traitorous government pawn, had not been fun when Sergeant Hannam had nearly killed him in his own study.

_It was fun watching Jean wave that gun around, though, _he thought with a smile.

Of all the many oddities he'd discovered since returning home to Ballarat Jean remained the most intriguing. At first he'd found her all but impossible to deal with, but it was as if a fire had been lit the moment his father passed, illuminating Jean in all of her complexity, dispersing the shadows she'd drawn around herself and allowing him a glimmer of understanding he had sorely been missing in those early days. The night the elder Blake passed Jean had been by Lucien's side in the hospital room, and she had whispered her prayers with tears shining in the corners of her eyes while Lucien stood by feeling rather useless; what good was it, he asked himself, being a doctor, if he could not save his own father's life? Some sense of chivalry had prevented him from confessing his faults to Jean, however, and he was grateful for it, for that night he had driven her home, and she had poured a measure of sherry for herself and a measure of whiskey for Lucien, and they had sat together in the sitting room, telling tales of his father.

Well, Jean had told tales. Lucien had mostly listened with rapt attention, hardly touching his drink, as the story of Jean's life was laid out before him. She told him of her Christopher, lost in the war, told him of Thomas Blake's kind offer to employ her, told him the story of countless nights she'd spent in that sitting room with his father, talking of books and politics and church, how in some ways the elder Blake had been something of a kindly uncle to her. It was a revelation to Lucien, this idea that his father could have been so compassionate, so friendly with his housekeeper, and yet the tears in Jean's eyes had conveyed the sincerity of her words. That night Lucien felt as if he were just meeting the both of them, Thomas and Jean, for the very first time. And in all the days since he had kept the memory of that conversation in his heart, and treated Jean gently.

And she, this miraculous woman who had endured the loss of her husband and the abandonment of her children and poverty and worse, had quite literally saved his life. She had found her husband's pistol and rushed to Lucien's aid, placed herself in harm's way for his sake, and that night, too, had shown him another side to her. Before that moment it had been difficult for Lucien to picture Jean as anything other than what she seemed to be now, a widow, a housekeeper, a secondary character in the production of so many people's lives, but that night had shown him just how wrong he had been. The heart of a fighter beat within her chest, resilient and steadfast and fearless. She had loved so deeply that seventeen years after her husband's death her voice still shook when she spoke his name, his ring still sparkled bright on her finger. Whatever she was now, the pieces of her former self remained within her, passion and bravery and a devilish wit shining through at the most unexpected times, and wherever she went Lucien's gaze followed, curious and eager for the next revelation.

Jean had only just celebrated a birthday, and though Lucien had nearly ruined the event with his own insensitivity he had managed to put things to rights between them, had presented her with a healthy pay rise and a present of a different sort. The pay had nearly been the end of things between them; she had bristled, as if he had insulted her somehow, in wanting to offer her more than she had thus far received, but Lucien had won her round in the end, pointed out how vital she was to the running of the house and the operating of the surgery. _Consider it a bonus, _he told her, _for pointing that gun at Sergeant Hannam. _At words she had laughed, and relented. The other gift, the real gift, she had taken with trembling hands and an gracious heart.

It was a jade broach Lucien had purchased before the war, a piece that had been salvaged from the wreckage of his home, kept safe by the Army until his release from Changi, delivered into his hands with the rest of his meager belongings at the end of the war. For years he had carried it with him, a talisman, a reminder of the dream he treasured most, the hope that one day he might find his wife and child again, that he might present this gift to Mei Lin just as he had intended decades before. That dream had faded until it was no more than a wisp of smoke, easily extinguished by the changing winds of his fate. Mei Lin was lost to him, likely for good, and he knew the day was coming when he would have to acknowledge that their reunion was not meant to be. Jean, though, Jean was here, and real, a constant support, an invaluable confidante, a woman who shared his life and his home and had more than earned his favor. In the weeks leading up to her birthday - he would forever be indebted to Mattie for telling him the date - he had asked himself what sort of gift he might give to her. It had to be beautiful, to his mind, had to be something lovely, something neither practical nor necessary, something she would never purchase for herself, something befitting a woman as unique, as wonderful, as delightful Jean herself. And it would also have to be something of sentimental value, something that could communicate without words how much he treasured her presence in his life. He'd stumbled across the broach while digging through his chest one night, and he had known in an instant that this was the gift he had been searching for. His way of telling her that she deserved such lovely things, yes, but also to tell her that he had chosen to live the life before him, and not linger in the past, drunk on regret and memories. And that evening, when he'd sat in her bedroom and watched her open it and seen the shine of her eyes, he had known that she understood.

Strange, he thought, how when left to his own devices his mind so often wandered to Jean. She drew him in, again and again; faced with a case he could not solve or a troublesome patient or the ghosts of his past he found himself turning to her, and with a kind word and a cup of tea she always seemed to heal whatever ailed him. Some piece of gossip or old town history, some simple connection Lucien had overlooked in favor of more outlandish explanations, some gentle wisdom from a heart that had known grief; she bestowed all these things upon him with grace and he found himself so deeply in her debt he did not know if he would ever repay it.

Still, he knew, it would not do to dwell too long on the sterling attributes of his housekeeper. She had a life of her own, a family and a history, and a sure moral certainty that would have her turning away at the very suggestion of something improper between them. She was his _friend_, and that was all he could ask of her, all he could offer her, all they could be to one another. Lucien did not have very many friends, and he was determined to keep this one for as long as he could.

With a sigh he rolled to his feet, stretched catlike and delighted in the sun, and then he reached into the pocket of his robe and withdrew a cigarette. Mrs. Beazley did not approve of smoking, and so Lucien took pains to never indulge himself when she was nearby. As she was gone to church for the morning he felt he had earned this vice, this one of many. He lit it with a smile and then began to stroll around the garden, his robe swirling around his calves as he went.

The garden was not quite large enough for a good aimless wander, and Lucien found himself returning to his starting point at the lounge rather quickly. He took a step, and then another, and then he was wandering through the fresh laundered linens hanging on the clotheslines. Bed sheets and aprons for the most part today, he saw as he passed amongst the linens, smiling at a particularly garish apron he'd seen Jean wearing earlier in the week. Those aprons, with their flowers and chickens and flights of birds; they were hardly the most alluring garments, but he quite liked the sight of Jean in them, the certain grace of her movements as she danced through the kitchen, the steady efficiency of her hands, the love she poured into everything she made, the comfort of home. And, of course, he quite liked the way they highlighted the tuck of her waist and the flare of her hips, though she hardly needed any assistance to draw Lucien's gaze to the curve of her body in quiet moments. There was a certain swing to her hips, a certain rhythm to her walk, that left his mouth hanging open more often than he'd care to admit, and though he knew it was foolish in the extreme he could not help but enjoy it, could not help but take just a little bit pleasure in the sight of a beautiful woman so close to hand. Even if that same woman would never look at him twice. Lucien had always held a deep appreciation, a sense of awe, for works of art, and there was no doubt that Jean Beazley was a masterpiece. Though he knew he could hardly be the only man to have noticed her loveliness her sharp tongue and ironclad reputation seemed to keep the suitors at bay, and Lucien tried not analyze the relief he felt knowing there wasn't a man waiting in the wings, hellbent on taking her from him. He was just getting used to life in this place, and that was one change he knew he could not abide. Hesitant as he had been to admit it aloud, in his heart he knew that he needed her.

He turned on his heel, about to go back the way he had come, and as he went he held out his arm, let his hand drift against the soft white sheets billowing softly in the breeze. But then, rather suddenly, there came a break in the line, and he saw that between the sheets there hung a few pieces he had not taken note of before, delicate and shimmering faintly in the sunshine. And he smiled as he looked at them, tucked his free hand into his pocket and took in the significance of the sight before him.

Had he not already begun to undertake something of a study on the subject of Jean's clothes and the significance thereof he might not have noticed the change of her choice of intimates, might have passed right by with his gaze fastened resolutely ahead, but as it was he could not help but think that there was a story here. Fluttering on the line, held in place by sturdy wooden pins, were several pairs of soft white satin knickers, and two brassieres. No lace or silk, no daring colors or fetching patterns, but still he smiled for these were new, with none of the appearance of age or wear or sorrow he had discovered the last time he'd gone wandering by the clothesline. The cut was more modern than the pair he'd spied so many months earlier, and he was certain he had not seen them on the line before. There was only one explanation, to his mind; Jean must have gone out and purchased new underthings for herself.

For all their simplicity they were quite lovely, and he thought that rather fitting, given that those same words could describe Jean herself. Her life was a simple one, revolving around the keeping of her home and the care of the people who lived there, church on Sunday and the sewing circle on Tuesday and confession on Thursday, every week like clockwork. Roast and veg and polishing the silver and updating the surgery's books, washing laundry and dishes, phone calls to young Christopher once a month and visits to the cinema when it suited her; these were the tasks that made up her life. But there was a beauty in that life, in _her_, that could not be denied.

Just as there was a beauty in these things she'd purchased for herself, these simple things that touched the most secret parts of her, that traveled with her through her day, helped to form the armor she wore, the uniform that made her who she was. Just as there was beauty in knowing that his plan had worked, that in providing more for Jean than she had been given before she had in turn taken those funds, and put them to work in improving her life, at least in some small part. It was all Lucien had hoped for, when he'd all but begged her to stay, when she'd agreed, when he'd set out to do better by her than he had done in the past; Jean deserved the world, and if he could not give it to her, at least he might be able to help her achieve some piece of it for herself.

He was positively beaming as he finished his cigarette and made his way back to the lounge.


	3. Chapter 3

Those damned stockings were going to be the end of him, he was sure. Though he had no idea how it had begun, what had led him to this place, he found himself enraptured, delighted, and cursing the thin material of those stockings, separating his hands from the heat of her skin. Somehow, quite without realizing how, they had wound up against the sink, Jean in his arms, her lips on his lips, her tongue curling around his own while he drank eagerly of the taste of her, drunk on a feeling the likes of which the whiskey had never inspired in him. One of his hands cradled her face, his palm against her cheek, his fingers catching in her hair, and the other had trailed down the glorious curve of her back, over the swell of her bum, to catch against the back of her thigh. And Jean, beautiful, clever, unfathomable Jean, had responded to his urging with no need of words, had hitched up her skirt and let him pull her even closer, let his hand wrap around tender flesh while her leg wound around his hip.

They were so _close, _so intimately, vulnerably, hungrily close. He flexed his hand against her thigh and heard her whimper, shifted his hips and felt the blazing heat of her so close to his own aching hardness that he could not help but groan. _Christ, _he hadn't planned on this, had never in a million years anticipated that she might be willing to allow him such a mercy, but now that he had her, soft and warm and _close, _he could not imagine a world in which he was not allowed to hold her.

Perhaps it was not so very unexpected, that they should find themselves here. She was a beautiful woman, a brilliant woman, a strong woman, a lonely woman, and they lived in such close quarters, shared the familiarity and responsibility of spouses and none of the pleasures, and perhaps it was inevitable, that one or another of them might break one day. Inevitable, he thought as he kissed her harder, as her hands fisted in his shirt and her leg flexed where she held him cradled against her, drawing him still closer. _Inevitable, _that's what she was; Jean was the moon, and he the tide, unable and unwilling to fight against the power she exerted over him, drawn to her without recourse, again, and again, and again. For the first time in decades he had found a woman who could banish the ghosts that haunted him, who could call him to heel in a manner that inspired him to be a better man, for her sake. A woman who made him _want_, made him _feel, _made him _burn. _

_She _had done this, inevitable, inestimable Jean; she had given him a home, a purpose, a direction, had given him a family - after a fashion - had given him hope. And desire, too, she had given him, inspired in him more than just the simple curiosity that had made Joy McDonald so appealing. Joy had been interesting, clever and independent and attractive and available in way that Jean was not, could not ever be, and he had been fond of her. _Fond, _and no more, _fond _the way he had been fond of Monica Parker, before he had realized that there was no future for him with her, that they had already gone as far as they could together. He and Joy had perhaps had a few more miles left in them, but he knew that they would not have made it much farther than his bed. And perhaps that would have suited her just fine, but she was gone, now, perished in the most terrible way, and he would never know.

What he did know was this; he was a hell of a lot more than _fond _of Jean. How it had happened, the moment it had begun, the manner of its making he could not identify, but this feeling remained, made clear now by the way his heart leapt in his chest and his hands clung to her so fiercely. This feeling had wormed its way inside him, had crawled beneath his skin, and now thrummed happily through his veins, rich and thick and intoxicating. It was a feeling he would not, could not name, not now, not yet, but he was intimately familiar with its symptoms. Every morning of every day he woke and sought her out, spoke to her quietly at the breakfast table. When he was lonesome, or confused, or trapped in some riddle he could not unravel, it was Jean he turned to for guidance, for support, for reassurance, Jean who set him to rights with gentle hands. He looked at her, across the kitchen, across the sitting room, across the garden, and he smiled, his heart suddenly grown light in his chest. He wanted to protect her, wanted to please her, wanted to see her smile and hear her voice, wanted, always, to know what she was thinking. It was Jean who occupied his thoughts in quiet moments not taken up with murder and mysteries. It was always Jean.

He leaned into her and she gasped and he grinned, feral and bright in the fading sunlight streaming in through the kitchen windows. His lips fell to the curve of her neck and she lifted one of her hands from his back, wound her fingers through his hair and held him in close against her skin. It seemed impossible, really, that whatever his feelings for Jean she might return them in kind, but she was holding him, and his heart rejoiced.

Still, though, there was the matter of those damnable stockings. His hand slid along her thigh, smoothing a path along lean muscle and tender flesh, desperate to feel her, all of her, every inch. But then, oh then his hand moved higher, and lace caught against his palm, and his teeth dragged lightly against the tendon of her neck. In his arms she sighed, a needy, happy little sound, and he eagerly proceeded, let his hand drift higher, and higher still, until, at last, he found her skin above her stocking tops. She burned him hot as fire, and he raised his head to look at her, his beautiful, glorious Jean, and then -

And then he woke with a start, bathed in sweat, his cock aching and his pulse racing and his thoughts spinning madly through his mind. The phantom apparition of Jean he'd conjured for himself in the dark hours of the night faded from view, and he rolled upright, sitting on the edge of his bed with his elbows propped on his knees and his head in his hands.

_You're a real piece of work, Blake, _he thought morosely. How could he have done such a thing, he asked himself, allowed such lascivious thoughts of Jean to infiltrate his mind? The dream had felt so _real_, so real he could almost taste her, and the thought of it caused shame to churn deep in his gut. Jean was lovely, and he could not deny it, but she deserved better for him, of that he was sure. Yes, he cared for her, without reservation, but he wanted, most of all, for her to be happy, and he knew that he could not bring her such happiness. Richard Taylor, on the other hand…

Lucien cursed and rolled out of bed, wrapped himself in his robe and snatched his cigarette case from the dressing table before making his way out of his room on silent feet. Sleep would not visit him again, he was sure, but sunrise was not far off, and so he would do his best to deal with the hand fate had dealt him, to occupy himself until the rest of the house woke and the day could begin in earnest, until he could at last shake off the shadows of his dream, the vision of Jean that lingered in the back of his mind.

His steps led him out of the house and to the back garden, where he could safely have a smoke or two or three, and then go inside and bathe and brush his teeth and in the end Jean would be none the wiser. It was better this way, he thought; after all, Mrs. Beazley did not approve of smoking.

And to his great surprise, Lucien found he did not miss it quite as much as he anticipated. In the beginning he had taken great delight in smoking in the parlor, just to see how it galled her, but over time he found no pleasure in such pursuits; it was better, he thought, to hear her laugh than to hear her chide him. And the urge did not strike him quite as often now; always before it was a vice he had indulged in to fill the silent moments of an empty life, but now his life was full to bursting, with friends and patients and colleagues, with Jean and Mattie and Matthew, with occupation and the satisfaction of a job well done.

_Idle hands do the devil's work, _that's what the old ladies used to say, and he smiled, a bit grimly, as he lit his cigarette and stood puffing on it mightily while he shoved his hands in the pockets of his robe and brooded in silence on the events of the last few days.

It had never occurred to him, before the fire at the cinema, that Jean might go out and catch herself a man. There had been Robert, from the theater group, but she had sent him on his way, and Lucien had thought that if a man as soft-spoken and genteel and respectable as that Robert was not good enough for Jean, no man would be. She certainly did not seem to be on the hunt for male attention - not that she would have to try very hard to obtain it - she still bore Christopher's name and his ring, after all. Before Richard Taylor, Lucien had assumed she was content to live out her days as a widow. And he rather thought he could understand that, and he certainly respected it, knowing what it was, to lose a spouse too soon.

Now, though, his thoughts were all in a muddle. She had spoken to the man on the phone, trailing her fingertips against the grain of Lucien's desk, coy as a schoolgirl, and then she had brought him home for a drink. Not only that, he thought grimly; Jean had worn a dress he'd never seen before, a dress that put all her perfectly tailored skirts and blouses to shame, it suited her so well. Just seeing her in that dress, the sheer beauty of her, knowing that she had quite deliberately slipped herself into it for the purpose of meeting with a man, had caused Lucien's mouth to drop open and his heart to rocket up into his throat. _That_ was the moment, he realized. The moment when everything changed. The moment he realized Jean was not possessed of some inhuman fortitude, that she was not above the same base longing that set his heart to aching in his chest, that she, like himself, could _want. _And seeing her in that dress he could not help but wonder, just for a moment, what she might look like out of it, clad only in her underthings - with which he now had a passing familiarity - confident and beautiful and bent on finding a piece of pleasure for herself, and once seen it could not be unseen; the thing was done. Jean was beautiful, and he longed for her, and now that he knew she was not entirely uninterested in the benefits of male company he could not help but wish, most fervently, that he might be the one she chose.

And yet, of course, he wasn't. Richard Taylor had done what he could not, had met a beautiful woman and asked her for a stroll around the park and sat with her having a drink in a quiet dream of possibility, while Lucien languished just out of reach, wondering why he had not had the courage to seize her for himself while he'd had the chance.

_As if I ever had a chance._

Wasn't that always the way, though? In his experience, a man often did not know what it was he wanted until the thing was taken from his grasp; consistency bred complacency, and he had taken comfort in the stability of his circumstances without realizing how easily it could all be snatched away. Well, he had realized it now, now when it was entirely too late and any opportunity he might have had was well and truly vanished.

He meandered around the garden, kicking absently at the grass and flicking the ash from the end of his cigarette with a negligent hand, but then all at once he came to a stop as his feet led him back, once more, to the clothesline.

From the very first Jean had demonstrated herself to be quite the most impeccably neat person he had ever met. She approached every task with all the confidence and determination of a drill sergeant, every step of every maneuver mapped out in her mind and no deviation from form tolerated beneath her roof. Jean Beazley did not leave anything on the clothesline after dark. Except, it seemed that somehow, inexplicably - worryingly - tonight, she had.

There was not much of it, from what he could see. Just two pairs of stockings, hanging neatly on the end of the line, and yet Lucien was drawn there as a moth to a flame. _Inevitable, _that's what she was, inexorable, unstoppable, unavoidable, and it seemed to him a strange sort of kismet, that he should dream of her stockings and then find them here on full display for him, and for a moment he could not help but wonder if perhaps he was still caught in his dream. The pair closest to him were nylon, the fabric sheer with a darker band around the top. He closed his eyes and puffed hard on his cigarette, trying to banish thoughts of Jean's legs in those stockings, that dark band against her pale skin, the softness of her thighs above it, below it…

_Unbearable, _he thought. _That's what this is. _

It was not that pair of nylon stockings that set his hands to trembling, however. It was the second pair, a little further down the line. Those were silk, and finely made, and it did not take a keen eye to discern that those were far more expensive, far too grand to be wasted on a working day. Could it be, he wondered, that she had worn those silk stockings the night she brought Richard Taylor back to the house? Could it be that beneath that fine green dress she had been wearing those silk stockings with their dark seam hugging the back of her leg, following the curves of her lithe body up to her thigh where they ended in soft white lace?

_This is a dream, _he told himself, though the burn of the smoke at the back of his throat suggested otherwise. Those stockings were a dream, brought to life; Lucien's dream, certainly, but Jean's as well. They were a manifestation of that dream, that hope for something more, something a little more _exciting, _a little more _exotic, _a little more _sensual _than her daily life. Nylon stockings would not do, to fulfill Jean's dream.

She had not spoken to him of her dreams, her plans, her hopes for the future. He did not know what she yearned for, what she wanted most from her life. As he looked at those stockings he could not help but wonder if he had just been granted an answer to that question as yet as unasked, could not help but wonder if he had just been granted entry into another corner of Jean's as yet unexplored motivations. Silk stockings, and that green dress, and those fine shoes; what other secrets, what other pieces of herself remained locked away at that room at the top of stairs, waiting for him to discover them?

He did not know, and in that moment he cursed himself, for he feared that while he might remain ignorant to the mysteries of her heart, Richard Taylor might soon unearth them all for his own gain.

_Damn the man, _Lucien thought bleakly.


	4. Chapter 4

Though she would never dream of admitting such a thing aloud - lest someone take such admission as an opportunity to be gleefully, shamelessly messy without hesitation - Jean had always rather enjoyed doing the laundry. It was a fairly simple, repetitive task, one she had performed with regularity since the early days of her childhood. The smell of fresh laundered linens always reminded Jean of her mother, the two of them performing this task side-by-side, making their way down the old wire clothesline behind their farmhouse, talking pleasantly to one another, the life they led there hard but not without love. Her hands knew the way, now, could gather and sort and wash and hang and fold without direction, and her mind was free to wander to other, more pleasurable pursuits. Laundry was rather like knitting that way, but it came with added bonus of allowing her to spend time lost in her thoughts in the sunshine of the garden, without the strenuous labor that accompanied yardwork. When there was work to be done the other inhabitants of the house would often make themselves conspicuously absent, and Jean did not complain, for there was joy to be found, she thought, in moments of solitude on bright sunny days.

Jean did not particularly enjoy dusting, unless the house was empty and she could turn the volume up on the old wireless while she ambled through the house. The vacuum made too much noise to allow her the indulgence of music, and the sound of it grated on her ears. Polishing the silver was not so very bad, but she rather detested the smell of the polish; sometimes, though, Lucien would bring her a cup of tea while she worked at the kitchen table, and he would sit beside her and they would chat, and that was all right. Cooking was a task she loved, a sort of alchemy she had learned by her mother's hand and now delighted in each day as she fed all those people she loved so well, but there were always dishes to wash, after, and Jean - who generally did not allow the sin of vanity to claim her and yet fell victim to it still on occasion - lamented the inevitable chipped nail polish and dried skin that came from washing the dishes. Though Lucien sometimes joined her at that task, as well, and both his help and his company were welcome.

_Oh, Lucien. _

Quite without meaning to Jean let loose a soft sigh of discontent as she piled her basket high with wet laundry fresh from the machine. If only dealing with Lucien were as simple, as routine, as managing the laundry, she thought, then perhaps he would not trouble her so. And yet he remained quite the most frustrating, unpredictable, lovely man she had ever known.

A year before she would not have called him _lovely_, she knew. _Crass_, or _thoughtless, _or _arrogant_ might have been the words she chose first. He had torn through her life like a cyclone, drunk and bitter, had turned her neat, orderly world on its ear. Gone were the quiet fireside chats and polite distance she had enjoyed while Thomas Blake was in residence; Lucien lacked his father's elegance, and his restraint, and their first few months together had been fraught with delicate arguments, neither of them raising their voices while likewise neither of them was willing to back down from their position. He would not be sensible, would not keep to a schedule, would not look after himself and then tried to tell her he did not need a housekeeper. As if that man could cook his own meals and wash his own unmentionables without bringing the whole house down around his ears! In the beginning, it had seemed to Jean as if he could not get rid of her fast enough, as if he was determined to ruin his own life as quickly as possible.

She knew better now, of course, and therein lay the crux of her problem. She knew, now, that he had not ever been deliberately cruel, that the whiskey had been a salve used to numb his pain, with poor results. He indulged far less frequently - and never to such extremes as he had in the beginning - and she took solace in that fact, knowing that his shattered heart was mending. And he had not sought to rid himself of her out of spite or personal dislike; he had only thought himself a burden, and tried to give her a chance to escape. And yet, when presented with such an opportunity, Jean had not taken it. Faced with a choice between a quiet, sheltered life and the spontaneity, the excitement Lucien offered her, Jean had squared her shoulders, and stood by him. Perhaps she had chosen the more difficult path, but she had no more wanted to abandon him than he had wanted to be abandoned, and they had found their way, had grown closer with each passing day until he had become her dearest friend.

A dear friend who occupied her thoughts rather more than was proper, she knew.

She sighed again as she made her way to the clothesline. It was all so bloody _complicated_, her thoughts muddled and incomprehensible. Lucien was lovely, handsome and strong and gentle, with her, at least. He did not speak to her harshly, sought often to help her, praised her at every turn, teased her on occasion. He had given her a healthy pay rise and implored her to make use of the house and all its contents however she saw fit. He deferred to her, in matters of hearth and home, and sometimes when he looked at her…

_Stop it_, she told herself reflexively, reaching into the basket to begin her work. The first thing that came to hand was one of her own dresses, and she hung it carefully on the line, fastened it in place with two wooden pins and smoothed her hands over the damp fabric, thinking hard.

It had been just over a month, now, since Lucien had stood before her in the garden, since he had brushed her tears from her cheek with a gentle touch, since had cradled her hands in his own and her heart had ached at the warmth of his skin. There had been something in his eyes, then, something dark and full of yearning, and she had known in that moment that he would have kissed her, if she would have let him.

She wouldn't, and he'd known it, but the want was there, just the same. It was a want she recognized all too well, for she felt it in her own heart. No matter that it was wrong, what she felt for him, the thoughts that came to her in quiet moments, no matter that she knew there could never be anything more between them, still, she wanted. She _wanted_, but she could not fathom asking for such a gift, could not imagine receiving it, had no notion what might become of her should she step onto that rocky road.

It simply wasn't done. A man of Lucien's standing, educated and wealthy and with a reputation to uphold, simply didn't go messing about with the help - at least, not where other people could see. And it would be social suicide for Jean to even contemplate such a thing; the rumors had begun the day he moved into the house, the day her neighbors met Lucien Blake and noted the breadth of his shoulders and the honey-rich timbre of his voice and the movie-star grace of his features. _She's been alone too long, and he's too good looking, you know they must be up to something in that fine house. Sure, he has a boarder, but who's to say what happens after Nurse O'Brien goes to sleep? _It was all Jean could do to keep her chin up when she went into town, to keep from confronting the whispers head on, but she knew from experience - an experience that had cost her dearly - that such defensiveness from her would only make the rumors breed in the dark like rabbits. She had not altered her behavior, and over time the rumors had lessened from a roar to a hum. Any change from her, any slackening in her religious observances or her perceived propriety, would be seized upon at once, and she would be ruined, proclaimed a wanton, no longer welcome in the company of her friends. Such a thing could not be allowed to pass.

Even if Lucien wanted to court her properly - and she could not say, truthfully, what his intention was on that score - he could not do so while they lived beneath the same roof, and she could not bear the thought of parting from him. Jean had lived and worked in the Blake house for nearly a decade, and she would not entertain the notion of being sent from her home, even if her intention was to return a year or so later with the Blake name attached to her as well.

She had gotten ahead of herself again, and she began to chide herself as she reached into the basket, this time coming up with one of Lucien's good white shirts.

Such a simple thing, a white shirt hung on a clothesline beneath a cheery sun. And yet as she touched it, smoothed her fingers over the fabric, ran her hands down the length of the sleeves, she could not help but think of the man who wore it, the man whose care and keeping had become her responsibility, by her own conscious choice. The shirt looked big and empty, hanging there like that; it just didn't seem right to see the shirt and not the man who wore it, the sleeves hanging loose and limp instead of stretched taut over a thick bicep. He did have such lovely arms, did Lucien; more than once Jean had felt the play of his muscles beneath her palm, watched him at work in the garden or helping her with a particularly strenuous task around the house, and felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight. What a comfort it would be, to feel those arms wrapped around her.

What a comfort it _had_ been, months before, when her grief had overcome her and she had collapsed against his chest in the sunroom, and he had held her close, smoothed his hands across the plane of her back and whispered _it's all right. _She had almost believed him, had wanted to believe him, and something deep within her heart had burst free at the touch of his hands. Those hands so much larger than her own, broad enough to span her waist almost entirely, to cover her, to shelter her from the world beyond, those arms strong enough to protect her from any harm, so willing, it seemed, to cradle her against him. There had been a moment, a fleeting instant, when he had touched her face and she had looked into his eyes and -

_And nothing, Jean Beazley, _she told herself firmly. For she was still, _Beazley, _always would be, Christopher's wife, mother to his children. Losing him had changed her in ways she still did not entirely comprehend, and even now, all these many years later, she sometimes conjured the image of his face as she drifted off into dreams, wishing only for one last chance to speak to him. The anniversary of his death took her hard each year, and this year it had been harder still, for her heart was in a riot, torn between her memories and a fragile, delicate hope for the future, a hope Lucien had stirred in her the day Jack stormed from the house.

As she hung another of Lucien's shirts on the line she let her thoughts wander to her husband, to the hundreds - thousands - of time she had done for him what she did for Lucien now. Before Christopher's death, before old Doctor Blake's offer of employment, Jean had only ever washed her family's clothes. There was something intimate about it, being allowed access to a person's things, their personal things, flitting in and out of private spaces with a load of washing in her arms. Christopher's shirts had smelled of the same soap Jean's did, the same soap that left its scent on her hands after a long day, and there had been comfort in that most basic of unions. She had darned his socks and patched the holes in his trousers and run his trunks over the washboard and teased him with her fingers catching in the fabric of those same trunks when he wore them later, and their hearts had been light, and happy. There had been more laughter than tears, when Christopher was with her.

His shoulders had not been quite so broad as Lucien's, she thought as she ran her hands over Lucien's shirt one last time, smiled sadly and reached for one of her skirts from the basket. Of course, Christopher had been younger, and hard times had kept him lean. He was frozen in time, her Christopher, with his laughing eyes and his dark curls falling over his brow, perpetually twenty-five in her mind, the age he'd been when last she saw him, though it was nearly two years between the day she kissed him by the bus stop and the day he died. _Died, _at twenty-seven, with a wife and two small boys at home who loved him. Fate had been cruel, to snatch her young man away, and Jean had never really recovered from that theft.

Only now, for the first time, she felt she wanted to recover. She did not want to forget; she knew she never could, knew a piece of her heart would always belong Christopher, and she would not change that for the world. But she was beginning to feel as if perhaps there might be a chance, however small, that she did not have to spend the rest of her life alone.

_Maybe this is the beginning of you being ready, _Lucien had said that day, standing a few feet from the spot where she stood now. And she had heard all that he did not say, had felt in the touch of his hand and the softness of his voice all that he was offering her. _I'm here, _his hands seemed to say as they wrapped around her own. _When you're ready. _

Her eyes drifted to the gold-toothed aloe, the plant that she had brought with her from the farm, its roots her own, now at home in this soil that had once seemed foreign. He had asked her to remember, to remember how she'd felt when she brought the aloe here, why she'd done it.

_I remember wanting to take a piece of my old life to this house, _she'd told him truthfully, _to keep Christopher's memory alive._

And she _had_; his family had never been particularly warm, and no comfort or quarter had been passed from them to Christopher's widow after his death. No one seemed to want to speak about him, and Jack barely remembered him, and Jean's heart had ached, to think that the world could so easily pass him by. And she had vowed that she would never, that she would keep his memory always, a torch burning in the darkness. He had been buried far from home in a foreign land, alone and distant from his family, but in Jean's heart, a piece of him lived.

_And you most certainly have_, Lucien had told her, knowing why she'd done it, his tone conveying his understanding. What troubled her was not those words, but what came after.

_And regardless, regardless of whatever happens next, I think you always will._

_Regardless of whatever happens next, _he'd said. As if change were in the air, as if something were coming, something with the potential to banish Christopher's memory, something Lucien did not want to wound her in such a way. Something inevitable, perhaps. Something as unchangeable as the moon or the tide. Something like the way her stomach fluttered when she caught Lucien's eye, the way her heart pounded when he stepped in close, the way his gaze dropped to her lips and she lifted her chin almost without thinking.

She sighed, again, hardly knowing what to think of Lucien or the words he'd spoken or the desires of her own heart. She had nearly reached the bottom of the basket, but the sight that waited for her there drew her up short.

There were only a few items left, and on top of the pile was a brand new pair of knickers Jean had purchased for herself from a catalog lent to her by Mary, the friendly young lady with a wicked smile who worked behind the counter at the fabric store. Jean had in fact purchased three pairs of knickers and three matching brassieres - an expense she never would have undertaken just a few months before - but so far had only found the courage to wear this new pair one time. They were a lovely, subtle shade of peachy-pink, mostly satin, though the side panels were lace, the same soft, delicate lace that edged the waist. Those side panels had caused her a bit of distress, at first; surely, she'd thought, such a thing was too risque for a widowed mother employed in service to the town's preeminent doctor. And yet...the cut was so fine, and the look of them when she'd dragged them up over her hips had caused her to blush. She looked beautiful, in those knickers. The brasserie that went with them was lovely too, lace and satin and a small, exquisite bow placed right between the cups, between her breasts. The overall effect of the two pieces together had been simply lovely, and Jean had reached at once for her silk stockings and a white suspender belt, and when she was done she'd felt herself stand a little straighter, the swing to her hips as she moved a bit looser than it ordinarily might have been. It had seemed a shame, on the day, that she should have to pull on her skirt and blouse, that no one would be able to see the truth of what she'd hidden beneath her clothes.

That _he_ had not been able to see.

She had dressed in the end, of course, and gone about her day knowing all the while what secrets she hid for herself. If asked about it outright she would never have been able to articulate why, exactly, she had done such a thing, made such a purchase, when she continued to believe there could never be anything more than friendship between herself and Lucien. Her brain could not form the words, but her heart knew the truth.

It was not the knickers alone that gave her pause as she bent, frozen in the midst of her task, however. It was the fact that the knickers lay, quite messily, atop a pair of Lucien's trunks. Heather grey and soft, cut in the manner she had learned that he preferred, those trunks could not have been more different in aspect and material to her lacy pink knickers. And yet, she thought, the two pieces looked rather...nice, lying there together. The colors were well suited, and it seemed somehow _right_, as if despite their differences they complemented one another. As if they belonged that way, together. Her mind drifted along, and as she reached for her knickers an image came to her, those knickers and those trunks lying not in the laundry basket but on the floor of Lucien's bedroom, her hands wrapped around his strong arms, his thick thighs - and she reckoned that she had some understanding of just how those muscular thighs might look, after the hundreds of times she'd washed his trousers and trunks - against her hips, those full lips and that neat beard pressed to the line of her neck, nothing to separate them, no secrets between them-

She straightened up so quickly her head spun for a moment, her lacy knickers balled up in her fist. _That_ was exactly the sort of thought she could not allow herself to have. _That_ was exactly the reason she should never have bought those lacy knickers. And _t__hat_ was exactly the reason why she had, why she'd worn them with quiet pride and a gnawing sense of yearning. _That_ was going to be the end of her, she was sure.

But then again, she thought as she finished with the knickers and reached for his trunks, perhaps such an end would not be as terrible as she imagined. All things must end, and in every ending, a new beginning could be found.

_Maybe this is the beginning, _she thought, smiling.


	5. Chapter 5

Jean was smiling.

Even from the doorway where he lingered, watching her in the dappled sunlight of a warm afternoon, he could see her smiling as she went about her work, the freshly washed linens rippling around her, carried by the light breeze. The same breeze tousled her soft, dark curls, and the same sunlight left her cheeks pink, and for a moment his breath caught at the sight of her. How beautiful she was, he mused, and what a beautiful thing it was to see her happy, untroubled by the grief and worries that had dogged her steps in recent days. He had not seen enough of her smiles, had not heard her laugh nearly often enough, but in the month since he'd brushed the tears from her cheeks and held her hand in that very garden he had on several occasions turned to find her gaze resting on him, her expression thoughtful, her eyes far away. His devotion had come spilling out of him that day, the walls he'd used to keep his feelings at bay crumbling as he'd seen her cry, as he'd heard her so plainly reveal the depth of the pain she carried with her every day, as he'd watched her in that terrible, ramshackle farmhouse that had once been hers, facing down a madwoman with a knife. She had handled that situation with grace and dignity, the way she did most everything, but Lucien had no decorum left in him, after that. No matter how she tried to hide it he knew, now, that her heart was aching, and he longed, more than anything, to be the one who might help her to mend.

There was a name for this, he knew, the way his eyes sought her out every time he entered a room, the way he found himself drawn to her, always, inevitably. There was a word for the way his pulse quickened when he took note of the swing of her hips, for the way he listened so intently every time she spoke. There was a word for the protective urge she inspired in him, for the desire he felt to make her smile, make her laugh, make her proud of him. There was a word for it, for the gentle way he'd treated her in the garden, the way his heart had swelled within his chest when he'd touched her. The word was not only _want, _or _longing, _or _desire;_ the word for this feeling was big, momentous in its scope, so monumental he did not dare even think it, not now, not yet. Not when she'd gasped, told him through her tears _I'm not still not ready. _She was not ready, and he could understand that, and so he kept his wants and his words to himself, but he could not keep his distance.

As he looked at her now, considering that word and all its implications and wondering when, or how, Jean might finally decide herself to be _ready, _the scene slowly came more sharply into focus, and Lucien realized, to his amusement, that while Jean's smile was beaming so brightly her hands were busy with a pair of his own grey trunks, hanging them gently on the line. What a strange thing, he thought, that she should seem so joyous while doing something so mundane; what a wonderful thing, the care she bestowed on him, the quiet, steady way she looked after him and his home, the peace and order she brought to this place.

Quite before he realized it he was moving, beating a path across the grass, heading towards her and the beautiful promise of the sunshine, and the domestic glory of the clothesline.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Beazley," he called to her winsomely as he drew near.

Her answering smile was so lovely as to knock him senseless there and then; _Christ, _he wondered, _does she have any idea the power of that smile?_ She had finished with his trunks and was reaching back into her basket, coming up with a damp white shirt.

"Good afternoon, Doctor Blake," she said as he came to a stop beside her, and the scent of grass and laundry soap in the early spring made for her a perfume finer than any sold in any shop. "All finished at the station?"

"I am indeed, thank you, Mrs. Beazley." If he'd been wearing his hat he might have swept it from his head and given her a little bow just then; he was in a fine mood, and he did so often like to tease her, to see her roll her eyes at his antics with affection written in every line of her face. "Will you be much longer, out here?"

His gaze drifted over the line as he asked his question, taking stock of the state of her laundry basket and then taking note of the many items she'd already hung out on the line, and then he paused, struck by a detail that was somehow both inconsequential and extraordinary. There hung his trunks, a light grey when dry but darker now with damp, and there beside them hung a very delicate pair of knickers. Not just any knickers; the sight of them made his mouth go dry, made his mind race, made his heart nearly stop in his chest. They were a beguiling shade of pink, made of satin soft and shimmering, with a daring lace accent that inspired all manner of untoward thoughts. These were not Mattie's; it was not even a question. They weren't the sort of thing a young lady might go in for; no, this particular pair of delicates belonged to a _woman, _a woman who wanted to be _seen. _

They belonged to Jean, and he could not breathe for imagining how lovely she might look in them, could not hear anything but the rush of his own thoughts, wondering when she'd made such a purchase, _why_ she'd made such a purchase, why now, all of a sudden, she might choose to so stray from her accustomed patterns. Had she only wanted something special for herself, a change of pace, something a bit more modern? Or had she begun to think, somewhere in the back of her mind, that maybe one day, one day soon, she might have someone to share such treasures with? Such a small thing, such an ordinary thing, those knickers, and yet to see them hanging there on the line next to his own trunks seemed to him to be a sign of something, some omen of joys to come, a whisper of potential that grew to a roar the longer he looked at them.

"Lucien?" Jean spoke his name softly, startling him from his untoward reverie, and at the sound of her voice he turned to her sharply. She had been speaking to him, he realized, and he had been so distracted he missed the question entirely.

"I do beg your pardon," he said, doing his very best not to look at her knickers again; _Christ, _he thought, _did she notice? _He prayed she hadn't; he couldn't bear it, if she took him for a letch. It was only that he adored her, that he longed to know everything about her, that he felt himself both frustrated and intrigued by the distance propriety demanded they keep between them.

"I was just saying, I'll only be a few more minutes, and then I can make you something to eat."

Her smile was gone, now, and she would not look him in the eye, but as she endeavored to keep her hands occupied he took note of the flush in her cheeks, and realized glumly it had nothing at all to do with the sunshine. She _had _noticed him noticing, then, he thought, and he had inadvertently shamed her, and he wanted, more than anything, to make her smile again.

"Please don't go to any trouble," he told her. "Actually, I was thinking I might make us both a cup of tea." _And you can come inside, _he added in his mind, _and sit with me, and we can laugh together, and put this moment behind us. _

It was happening more often, little moments like this one cropping up, when the air between them seemed to shift, heavy with the weight of the words he had not spoken, the promises he had not made, the depth of his regard only previously hinted at. She must have known, he thought, the course his thoughts had run, must have known what he meant when he told her _whatever happens next, _must have known what he was offering her when he had taken her hands in his own. It had been months since that day in the sunroom when he had very nearly kissed her, when he had been certain that if he had only bowed his head she would have let him, before the blasted telephone had rung. _Months, _and she must have spent everyday knowing that the rush of yearning that had nearly engulfed them that day had not receded. They had built a dam to stem its flood but the waters were growing higher every day, and Lucien did not believe for a moment that she was ignorant of their predicament. She had stayed with him, though, did not shy away when his hand fell to her elbow or the small of her back, smiled softly when he stood with her of an evening, drying the dishes she passed to him with dripping hands. She had _stayed, _and to him that seemed all the proof he needed that her own desires were beginning to line up quite nicely with his own.

As he made his offer she looked up at him, and he realized quite suddenly that they were standing very close, and he could not help but recall how easily she had fit within the circle of his arms, the one time that he had held her. Her heart had been breaking, when he'd pulled her in close against his chest, when she had buried her face in the crook of his neck and wept, and he had thought only how small she was, how delicate, how fiercely her heart could love, how much better than this she deserved. She deserved the world, his Jean, and he wanted to be the one to give it to her.

"That would be lovely, Lucien," she told him, her voice just a little bit breathless, and his heart soared. She had not tried to manufacture some excuse to stay away from him, had not rejected his attempt at kindness, had in fact accepted his offer for a few more minutes spent together, just the pair of them, alone in that grand house they shared, that house that felt like home only so long as she was in it. Surely, he told himself, that must be a point in his favor. Surely, he thought, this moment was a gift, this sunshine, this fortuitous assembly of their things on the clothesline, the serendipitous way that union had been revealed to them both. Her knickers and his trunks, hanging side-by-side, _together_; it made for quite a lovely picture, he thought. A tableau of domesticity, an easy, familiar sort of intimacy, a companionship that he and Jean might explore themselves, one day. He did not want to let it pass unremarked upon and yet he could not find any words to express his thoughts that would not seem crass or banal or terrifying to Jean's ears. And he was standing far too close, and she was looking up at him, and the sun was bright and cheerful, and his hands itched to reach for her, and with each beat of his heart the need to touch her, kiss her, sweep her off her feet and carry her laughing into the house, built until he was almost feverish with it.

"Lovely," he said, wanting to echo her sentiment, but the word had come out husky with yearning, and she ducked her gaze, and he knew then that she had heard the thought he had intended to hide, that it was _she_ who was lovely, and not the prospect of a cup of tea.

"Lovely," he repeated, softer still, and her eyes shot up from their perusal of her shoes, landed on his face with a question there he could not answer, not yet. He only smiled and turned away, shattering the moment and plunging them both back into reality in an instant. His feet carried him across the grass, his smile so wide his cheeks ached with it, the weight of Jean's eyes heavy on his back. It would not have been right, he thought, to linger a moment longer, to press her, to torture them both with that heady, tantalizing sense of _almost_ that had hung in the air between them. They could take a few moments to collect themselves, while he made the tea and Jean finished with the laundry, and then they could sit together in the kitchen with a respectable distance between them, and Jean would ask him about his day and they would laugh and that moment of _almost_ something would fade in the light of their friendly banter. It would not disappear entirely, he knew. They would find themselves in close proximity again, and again, and maybe one day, one day soon, Jean would be ready. Lucien Blake was not the most patient of men, but Jean Beazley was a woman worth waiting for.


	6. Chapter 6

It was soft, somehow, in a way she had not expected, a way that left her breathless. The way he touched her was soft, his broad, strong hands drifting through her hair, fingertips finding the ridge of her cheek, thumb tracing the line of her jaw. There was wonder in that touch, and joy reverent and trembling. His lips were soft, too, pressed against her own, full and warm, the taste of him not something she could define but something she craved, not overpowering but intoxicating nonetheless. His tongue was soft, sliding between her lips as she gasped and he grinned, breathless and delighted. Beneath her hands his skin was soft, smooth, warm and soothing, the sensation of finding herself in the arms of another for the first time in nearly two decades almost enough to make her weep, so great was her relief, her abundant joy. And there between her thighs, where she cradled him close, she could feel the softness of his heather-grey trunks, the fabric sliding against her tender skin, comforting and erotic at the same time.

Before this moment she had wondered, more than once, what it might be like to finally give in to the longing she felt for him, what it might be like if those hands reached for her, not seeking to offer comfort or support but seeking to know her, to hold her, to ferret out her secrets and reveal all the pieces of her heart so long kept hidden. In those imaginings everything between them was hot and hard and rough, desperate, his strength and his power overwhelming her utterly. He was an overwhelming sort of man, her Lucien, brilliant and passionate and moody and impulsive and so bloody _strong, _and any time she imagined herself on the receiving end of that strength it had never played out like this. Like his strong arms holding him braced above her, not crushing her but mindful of her comfort. Like his broad chest, brushing against the bare skin of her breasts with every ragged breath she took, but not pinning her down. Like the hard, thick muscles of his thighs beneath those soft grey trunks, poised to drive into her and yet holding back for her sake.

No, he was tender, her Lucien, _soft, _as if he were awestruck at the very thought of touching her. And she loved him for that softness, for the delicate way he treated her, his adoration of her communicating itself to her in a hundred tiny ways. She _loved _him, and holding him now, lying naked beneath him in his bed, her heart felt full to bursting with that love. This softness he had given her, this gentle regard, but she had drunk her fill of these silken affections, and now tension and desire coiled in every muscle of her body, twisting, tightening, as need took hold.

If he would not press her then she was determined to press _him, _and so she slid her hands over the slope of his back to tangle in his hair, drew him down hard against her as she caught his bottom lip between her teeth, lifted her hips even as she tightened the grip of her thighs against him, pulled him into her. Though he still wore his trunks she was bare, and she ground her aching heat against his hardness through the soft material that separated them still, gasping, softly, at the friction between they generated between them. Perhaps she had surprised him; he groaned into her kiss and shifted against her, his thighs tightening as his self control slipped, as he gave into his own longing and thrust into the welcoming cradle of her thighs. He drew his head back, looked down on her with hooded eyes full of lust and more, so much more, and her heart sang in her chest like some wild bird at the thought that it was _she_ who had put that look upon his face, that he was bare and wanton and overwhelmed for _her_, that all that she felt for him was returned to her in kind.

"Jean," he growled her name, lowered his head to trace the lines of her neck with his tongue. She threw her head back against the pillows, her hips pressed hard to his, the smallest of movements sparking want through her veins like electricity. He shifted, took his weight on his knees so that he could free his hands, learning the lines of her trembling body while still his mouth lingered against her neck. His palms found the curve of her hip, spanned the softness of her belly, slid upward to knead her breasts and draw sighs of longing from her lips. This man would be the end of her, she thought dimly, lost on a wave of pleasure; he would undo her utterly, and she him, and they would forge themselves anew amongst his bedsheets. Desperate for more, now, to unleash him in truth, her hand moved without thought, abandoning his soft blonde curls and slipping between their bodies. She was no blushing virgin, and she had waited too long for him; she would have her fill of him here, now. In a moment she found her mark, palming his hardness through the thin fabric of his trunks, a shiver racing down her spine at the feel of him against her hand, at the way he groaned aloud and thrust himself into her touch. Her fingers curled, seeking to catch hold of him, and then -

And then she woke, gasping, sweaty, mortified. Beyond her window the sun had just begun to rise, a warning to Jean that the time had come for her to do the same, to leave her bed and dress and prepare for the day ahead, but she could hardly move.

_What on earth was that? _She wondered, lying still and disquiet beneath her duvet. She could not remember the last time such a dream had troubled her; it was not that she was above such human desires, but they rarely manifested themselves in such a visceral, almost tactile manner. As the fragments of her dream gave way to reality she fancied she could almost feel Lucien against her skin, the weight of him above her, the softness of his lips, though the spectral vision she had conjured for herself had left her cold and lonely. It had all felt so _real, _as if it were memory, and not the sinful meandering of her imagination.

Then again she supposed she should not be surprised by this visitation; her thoughts had lingered on him more and more, of late. There had been that day in the garden, that day when he had held her hands, encouraged her to reach out and take what she wanted for herself when they both knew that it was _Lucien _she wanted, more than anything else. Or at least, she thought he knew, must have known, by the way he looked at her, the way his hands found their way to her hip with such alarming regularity these days, that he was the one she burned for. And then there had been that moment, also in the garden, when he had caught her daydreaming about him while she hung the laundry out to dry, when his gaze had traveled to her pink knickers and his eyes had gone wide and dark with interest. That had been a troubling experience, not because he had seen her knickers or watched her hang his own trunks on the line but because it had forced her to confront the truth behind her decision to buy the knickers in the first place. They were meant to be _seen, _and Jean had not gone to bed with anyone for seventeen long years. She had done it on purpose, she knew, thinking somewhat absently about how if the occasion did arise when someone else might see her underthings - though she had done nothing else to bring about such an eventuality - she wanted them - _him - _to be pleased with the vision of her. And perhaps such a thought was fine in the abstract, but that day in the garden had forced her to admit that the reality of the situation was somewhat more complicated.

It might be very nice, to go to bed with Lucien, to feel free enough, brave enough, safe enough to make such a choice. It would have been a lot more than _nice, _in fact, but it could never be more than a dream. He was her employer, the man she depended on for room and board, the man who paid her wages, and as such utterly out of reach. They were not wed, and she could not imagine such an arrangement between them, and the church's stance on relations outside of wedlock was very clear. It would be social suicide to fall in with him, for one thing, and for another it would place her life into a tenuous balance. What would become of her, should he tire of her affections? Should they have a colossal falling out, as lovers so often did? What would become of her, shamed and desolated, if she had to search for work elsewhere amidst all the whispers? And more than that, as much as she cared for him, as much as she longed for him, Lucien himself gave her reason to pause. He was impulsive, reckless, wild; could she really tie herself to such a man? Could she really allow herself the vulnerability of love with a man who was so often distracted, who so often turned his back on friends and responsibilities when a mystery consumed him? She could not bear it, she thought, to finally open her heart to another, only to find herself cast aside in favor of more interesting pursuits.

_He would not do that to you. _

It was a fleeting thought, dancing across her mind as she rolled out of bed, and prepared to start her day. Always, Lucien had been kind to her - well, she amended to herself, _almost_ always. He had not been particularly kind in the beginning, but he had found a shred of humility and told her how he needed her, and from that day to this he had been courteous and considerate of her. He had come back to her, after his trip to China, had come _home, _had showered her with presents at birthday and Christmas, had held her hands in the garden, had very nearly kissed her in the sunroom. And _oh, _but she wished he had, wished the infernal phone had not rung, wished they had seized the opportunity presented to them to finally act on the tension that swirled between them.

Jean lingered for a moment in front of her dresser, the draw the held her underthings open as she stared down at it, thinking hard.

What would be worse, she asked herself; would it be worse to fall in with him and have it turn to ruin, or to spend the rest of her life wondering what might have been if only she'd found the courage to reach for him? It would be hard, damn near impossible, to start over after such a catastrophe, but to never know the touch of his hand in passion, never know what they could be to one another, to never _love_, as she so longed to love; that would be a slow and terrible kind of death.

She reached into the drawer, felt the slide of silk and satin and the hint of lace as she searched for something to wear. A very special day lay ahead for Jean; it was her birthday, and she would get to spend it in the company of the Ballarat Drama Society. She would see to breakfast at home first, of course, but then she would be off to the Colonists'. She would assist with the preparations in the morning, rolling out chairs and tables and laying the decorations, and then Cec would serve her and the other volunteers a nice lunch. And then they would rehearse and adjust the lighting one last time, and then slip out of sight for costumes and makeup and a light supper before the show began. Jean would be there, on stage, with _Jacqueline Maddern_, and the very thought thrilled her; it was not often that Jean got to be the center of attention - though she supposed she wouldn't really be that evening, any way - but being in the chorus would still put her front and center, and she felt a spark of anticipation at the thought. They would be watching her, all of Ballarat's high society, and she would wear a beautiful costume and speak the ancient words that would fill that audience with awe and wonder. It would be a beautiful night, a wonderful night, and her birthday besides; what if, she wondered absently, Lucien had a gift for her this year, as well? What might it be?

A little smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she found what she was searching for; a brand new pair of soft, daring black lace knickers. Finely made and exorbitantly expensive the knickers had remained at the back of the dresser drawer - along with the matching brassiere - unworn from the day she'd purchased them. But they were beautiful, so beautiful, and it was her birthday, and while she had found no answers to the questions that swirled through her mind she felt a sudden urge to wear them today. Yes, it would be a special day, and Jean would quite like to _feel _special, even if this was a secret she would keep for herself, unable to share it with anyone else.

Carefully she slid free of the knickers she'd been wearing, and pulled on the new ones. There was rather a lot less material here than she was used to wearing, and she felt as bare as if she wore nothing at all. But when she glanced in the mirror and saw the black lace stark against her pale skin, she smiled. No, she was not brave enough to be Lucien's lover - yet - was not as glamorous as Jacqueline Maddern or as powerful as Susan Tyneman, but standing there in those knickers she felt beautiful, and strong. And maybe that was enough; maybe it was enough for _her _to see herself this way, to see not just a poor farmgirl or a dowdy housekeeper, but a woman, complex and layered and full of surprises. Maybe it was enough; it would have to be.


	7. Chapter 7

Jean was leaving.

Oh, she hadn't made up her mind yet, told him she was still weighing her options, but still. She was leaving. She wouldn't have taken out a loan, dragged her heavy suitcase down from the attic if she hadn't made up her mind already. Whatever she tried to say, it seemed to Lucien that she had made her choice. She was _leaving, _all set to pack up and abandon him in favor of sunny Adelaide and all its bloody churches. He could hardly stand the thought of it.

Like an animal caged in a zoo he paced the perimeter of the garden as the sun sank below the horizon, puffing angrily on a cigarette for the first time in months while his thoughts ran riot.

_How did this happen? _He asked himself, his feet tracing the same path through the grass over, and over, and over again. Before that moment when she'd called to him in the kitchen, sat him down and asked him to co-sign the loan for her, he had thought that things were going quite well between them. He'd been busy, of course, had perhaps not asked after her granddaughter as often as Charlie might have liked, but he had been happy. He had thought they were both of them, happy, dancing around the edges of a flirtation that with every breath seemed to tilt closer towards something more, something bigger, something grander. She was beautiful and close and full of smiles, and Lucien had been content to wait, to keep his more amorous thoughts to himself, to follow where she might lead. Although, he thought, her smiles had been rare of late, and she had seemed somewhat withdrawn, but surely he couldn't expect her to be happy every moment of every day. He had thought this sudden malaise would pass, as he himself had so often drifted through discontent in the past.

And now, this. Though it was perhaps unkind Lucien could not help but resent, just a little, young Christopher's request for his mother's aid. It wasn't the boy's fault, Lucien knew; Christopher and his wife - _what was her name? _he couldn't quite recall, and that seemed to be a strike against him - were young, this their first child, and Jean's guidance would no doubt be invaluable to them. But the timing of it could not have been worse. He was close, so close to solving the mystery of his mother's death that he could almost reach out and touch the answers he so longed for, and he and Jean had not yet run their race; they were also close, so unbelievably _close _to bridging the final distance between them and allowing their hearts the freedom to explore everything they could be to one another. And yet, Christopher had called, and Jean had answered, had immediately put into motions the plans for her departure, no matter how long she hesitated to voice her decision aloud.

_Why? _He asked himself, for perhaps the hundredth time. He could understand the desire she felt to go and see to her son, but what he could not understand was why she had chosen to _move, _to pack up all the pieces of her life and start over in bloody Adelaide, more than ten hours' drive from the only home she'd ever known. Why such a drastic action, when surely she needed no more than a few weeks to set things to right for Christopher and what's-her-name? He would have given her leave to go for a month, or two, or six, if she asked it of him, but she had leapt straight to this, and the thought of it sat heavy as lead in his gut.

Did she really want to leave for good and all? To leave Ballarat, and her home, and _him, _forever? Was life in Adelaide really that much more appealing to her?

He had thought, before now, that she was quite as invested in their tenuous almost romance as Lucien was himself. And Lucien, well, he was more invested than he wanted to contemplate. Whenever his mind was not occupied with thoughts of death and riddles his thoughts turned to her, her wit, her loveliness, the potential for _something_ that hung in the air between them. In quiet moments he entertained thoughts of taking her aside, cradling her cheek in his palm as he had done before, leaning in close and breathing in the soft floral scent of her perfume and then letting his lips brush against hers softly, reverently, hopefully. Such visions tormented him in the still of the night, but he had not yet taken such a leap; the time had never seemed right, and now it seemed to him that his moment had come and gone.

Did she think his affections chaste? Did she think he considered her only a friend, that he did not long for her with every fiber of his being? He had thought, before now, that he had made his desires plain, and yet he had never stated them outright, and perhaps that had been his gravest mistake. Perhaps he had been too circumspect, he thought as his feet drew him towards the clothesline and the cigarette smoldered in his hand. Perhaps he had guarded himself too closely out of respect for her principles, and in so doing had given her the impression that he was not interested in pursuing anything more than friendship with her.

He stopped there by the clothesline, as he had done many times before. It was summer, now, and Jean had left a few things on the line in the evening as she tended to do when the weather was fine. Just the sheets from his bed, and a few of his shirts, and two of Mattie's dresses. He gazed at them, hanging limp in the still air, and brooded. There was nothing of Jean's on the line this evening, and if she was truly resolved to go, there would not be again. This would be his future, then, just himself alone, rattling around the house while Mattie watched him apprehensively. And even she would not stay with him forever; she was a young woman, and the world lay open at her feet. One day soon she, too, would leave him. And then he would be, as he had never wanted to be again, alone.

It was not the loss of company that bothered him so. It was this, looking at the clothesline, and seeing no piece of Jean. It was the thought of letting her go without telling her how he loved her, without ever discovering for himself the many secrets she kept hidden beneath her perfectly tailored clothes. It was the thought of never seeing her, never hearing her laugh or feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his palm, ever again. It was the thought of never knowing if his affections were returned in kind - or perhaps receiving confirmation that they were in fact not returned at all - that left him feeling weak and lost.

It was not his choice to make, and he knew it. How would it look to her, he wondered, if he only revealed the depth of his regard for her now, when she was so determined to leave? Would she think him only desperate to maintain his comfortable life, to keep a good housekeeper close to hand? Would it not be cruel, he wondered, to only offer himself to her when her mind was already made up, the wheels already in motion? And how would it hurt, he wondered, should he make himself so vulnerable only to discover that she wanted no piece of him, was glad to be rid of him?

There were no answers to those questions, at least none he could find smoking and brooding in the garden. He dropped his cigarette in the grass and stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe, and in a fit of pique he left it there. It did not matter, he supposed, if the sight of it made her cross; she was leaving, and she would take all her smiles and all her admonitions with her when she left.

* * *

It was later, much later, when she came to him. Mattie drifted away and Jean took her place, went to his drinks cart and poured herself a measure of whiskey. That alarmed him, more than he wanted to admit, and he was on his feet in a moment, crossing to stand beside her and look down on her in concern.

"Whiskey?" he asked her, watching in bemusement as she tossed it back, as natural as if it were something she did every day, trying to ignore the way the sight of her drinking his whiskey called to his heart, the way he longed to lean in and drink it from her lips. "Now, that's not your usual."

"No," she agreed. No, Jean's usual was sherry, and in point of fact the only time he'd ever seen her drink whiskey she had shuddered and emptied her glass in the sink. "But I thought I might need some extra courage."

His heart sank. Not just because he knew now what she was going to say, but because she had not felt brave enough to say it on her own. Did he frighten her so? Did she think he would be cruel, vindictive when he learned the truth? He had hoped that she knew him better than that, and yet the words echoed in his mind, left him troubled, unsettled.

"You've made your decision, haven't you?" he asked her quietly. He was standing close, rather closer than was proper for an employer confronting an employee determined to abandon her post, but Jean had never, not even for a moment, been an employee to him. She was _Jean, _and she meant more to him than anything else in the world. And she was _leaving. _

And yet, her words came back to him, again and again. He took in the sorrowful sight of her face, her posture straight and proud though her heart was breaking in her eyes, and the smallest flicker of hope flared to life within his chest. It seemed to him that while Jean had at last made up her mind, found the courage - liquid or otherwise - to tell him of her decision, she did not seem happy about it. Could it be, he wondered, that she did not want to leave? If she would only give him some indication, tell him outright why she seemed so hesitant to take this opportunity he would gladly have fallen at her feet and offered her all of himself at once, but he could not quite bring himself to make such a declaration when he did not know for certain the reasons for her reticence. It might not have anything to do with him at all; Jean had never lived anywhere but Ballarat, and surely the thought of picking up and moving all the way to Adelaide was a daunting one, even if she would be glad to go. It would not do to add his own desperation to her burdens.

"Yes, I have," she told him. "I'm leaving tomorrow morning. I've arranged for Evelyn Toohey to step in, and I'll stay two nights Soldier's Hill."

_And then I'll be gone._

The words hung heavy in the air between them, unspoken but lingering nonetheless. Lucien wanted to grind his teeth in frustration. _Why the hotel? _He wondered. Why bother with a hotel room, when she had a perfectly serviceable bed upstairs, in a room that had been hers for over a decade? Unless, of course, she really was that eager to be rid of him.

And yet he thought not, for she looked rather close to tears. Her lower lip trembled, and her eyes were wide and sad, and she stared at him almost desperately, as if begging him silently to say something, anything to ease the tension of the moment. _Don't go, _he wanted to say. _Stay with me, please. Love me, please. Don't leave me, not before we've had the chance…_And yet the words would not come; his heart raced, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. It should have been the easiest thing in the world, speaking to her. This was _Jean, _standing before him while his very soul cried out for her, Jean whom he adored, the one person in all the world with whom he felt most himself, most at home, and yet, still, he could not speak. He did not want to embarrass her, did not want to hurt her, did not want to make things harder for her than they already were, but above all, he did not want to lose her.

"Well," she said, her tone almost despairing, as if she had asked a question and in his silence heard the answer. She began to turn away from him, no doubt intending to make her way to bed.

_Say something, man! _He told himself desperately. _This can't be the end. Not now. Not like this._

"Jean," he reached for her, all unthinking, with the hand that still held his half-full glass. She turned to him sharply and his hand bumped against her side, spilling whiskey all down the front of her skirt.

"Oh!" she cried, taking a step back and wiping ineffectually at the seeping fabric.

"Bloody hell," Lucien swore. He tossed his glass down onto the desk and took a step towards her. He reached out as if to help her and then drew his hands back at once, cursing himself for having come so close to touching her thigh in this, the worst possible moment. "Jean, I'm so sorry." _For everything. _

She sighed, let her hands drop to swing uselessly by her side, the sight of that stain on her skirt leaving his heart cracked and bleeding; it seemed to him that she had given up, not just on salvaging her skirt, but on all the hopes they had both of them harbored for their future. She did not immediately answer him, just let her eyes linger on his face, as if this were the last time she thought to see him, and she wanted to fix his image in her mind.

"I'm sorry, too, Lucien," she whispered at last, and then she turned and fled.

For a moment he stood, flummoxed, staring at the spot where she had been standing only a moment before.

_Damned fool, _he cursed himself, reaching out for his now empty glass. For a moment he held it in his hand, considering filling it again - and again, and again - until the memory of this night faded into nothingness. And yet his feet did not carry him to the drinks cart. He stayed right where he was, thinking about Jean, about all that had transpired between them over the course of their acquaintance, thinking of every time he had touched her, every time he had heard her laugh, thinking of every time he had strolled through the garden and smiled at the sight of her things on the clothesline, happy in the thought that he shared his life with her.

_I'm sorry, too._

It was as if something within him snapped then, quite suddenly, some restraint violently, instantly released so that the longing beast that had until now remained fettered within him had broken free and demanded attention at once. If she wanted to leave him, wanted it truly, he would let her go, but he would hear the words from her own lips, would look her in the eye and ask her outright whether this was truly what she wanted for herself. He could not let her fade from his life without knowing for a certainty that she did not want him, did not care for him, did not love him as he did her. It would break his heart, to know that his love was unrequited, but at least he would _know, _and not spend the rest of his days lost in regret.

The glass made a soft, almost imperceptible sound as he dropped it on the carpet, but Lucien did not hear it, for he was already out the door, beating a path toward the stairs. Toward Jean.


	8. Chapter 8

Lucien's heart was racing, as his feet carried him up the stairs. All he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears, the faint echoing sound of Jean's voice saying _I'm sorry, too. _He did not know what waited for him at the top of the stairs, did not know what words he could possibly say to explain his sudden intrusion into her private domain, his desperate need to keep her close, to keep her with him, to never live one single of day of his life without her by his side. He did not know how he could possibly express himself without terrifying or offending her; he knew only that he _must_, that her quiet, broken-hearted apology had given him one final chance to salvage any hope of a future with her, and he was determined not to let this opportunity slip through his fingers. Whatever came next, he rather felt that it was not the sort of thing that could be planned, and he didn't have time enough for such deliberation, any way. Jean was _leaving, _and it was up to him to stop it.

At the top of the stairs he skittered round the corner and straight through her door, never slowing, never stopping, never thinking. If he had only paused, he might have thought better of bursting in on her without announcing his arrival; it was an appalling display of ill-mannered presumption, and ordinarily that sort of thing did not sit with well Jean, and he had been, until now, respectful of her privacy. If he had only slowed, just for a moment, he might have remembered that it was a stained and soaking skirt that sent Jean fleeing from his side, and realized that chances were good she was, even now, in a state of undress. If he had only hesitated, for a single instant, he might have taken note of the fact that her bedroom door was not closed all the way, and he might have marveled at that silent invitation and all that it implied.

As it was not one of those thoughts registered with him, and he was halfway through her bedroom, calling softly, "_Jean," _before the sight before him resolved itself into a picture of stunning, heart-stopping clarity, before his eyes grew wide and he nearly swallowed his tongue.

There on the side of the room, not three paces from where he stood now frozen and slack-jawed, Jean was standing with her back towards him, her skirt clutched in her hand and her face pale in the reflection of the mirror in front of her. In a daze he stared at her, hardly breathing, enchanted and inflamed and devastated. She was, he thought, the loveliest thing he had ever seen in his entire life. She was a vision, an angel, a goddess, half-bare and vulnerable but strong enough to break him in two, just the same.

Strange, how in a single moment a thousand tiny details could burn themselves into his brain, set his hands to trembling. There the long length of her legs, still wrapped in soft stockings. There the black clasps, holding them in place, stretching up to disappear beneath the hem of her short satin slip. And there, just visible beneath that same slip was the curve of her bum, and there, oh there was soft black lace, her skin pale beneath it, calling out his name. There in the mirror he could see her shirt hung open, all the buttons unfastened, and beneath that almost translucent slip was the faintest hint of black lace to match what she wore below. There in the mirror he could see her face, beautiful and uncertain, watching him as he watched her. Lips parted, eyes round, breaths short and sharp, she watched him, and he could hardly take his eyes from her.

How long, he wondered, how long had he looked at her and yearned to see her, all of her, to love her as she deserved, to trace the curves of her body with reverent hands, to whisper in her ear how he adored her, how brilliant, how wonderful, how bloody beautiful she was? How long had he spent slowly dying as with each passing day they drew closer and closer to one another, and yet not close enough to share an intimacy such as this?

And how long, how bloody long, had she been walking around this house in her prim and proper clothes with black lace hiding underneath, a secret only she could know, a secret he had burned for? He had caught sight of her things on the clothesline, a time or two, had noted the change in her choices, a change that had begun, he thought, when the tension in the air had begun to shift between them, when it seemed to him that her eyes lingered on him nearly as often as his did on her, when it seemed to him that she had begun to lean into his touch, to accept his affection and return it in kind. The two had seemed to him to be linked, somehow, as if her heart was warming to him, as if she had begun to harbor the hope that maybe, one day, this secret would not be hers alone.

He did not _know, _though, if that daring black lace was meant for him or someone else or only for Jean herself, did not know what he was supposed to say, what he was supposed to do, but she had not cursed him, had not shrieked and covered herself, had not scolded him or demanded he leave at once. She had not said a word, had only stood, watching him watching her, and in the silence that stretched heavy and glittering between them he rather thought he sensed another change brewing.

"Lucien," she breathed his name, softly, letting the skirt drop from her hands to pool at her feet. She did not turn to face him; perhaps she did not feel as if she could. Perhaps she felt, as he did, that this moment must surely be a dream, that to move, so much as an inch, would shatter it like glass upon a marble floor. Perhaps she feared, as he did, that if she so much as blinked this vision would vanish and they would both of them wake cold and lonely in opposite sides of the house.

"Why?" he asked her, his voice ragged and choked. His thoughts would not resolve themselves, his limbs heavy and ungainly as desire and panic and hope and fear all swirled round and round within him, and no telling which emotion would be the victor of that struggle. He wanted to ask her why she was leaving him, why she had done this thing, why she was throwing away their future, but he likewise wanted to ask her why the door had been left open, why she was not throwing him from the room, wanted to ask her outright her reasons for casting aside her well-worn white satin in favor of black lace. _Why, _that was only word that left him, and as he caught her gaze in the mirror her cheeks turned pink as if with shame, though her back was straight, her bearing proud beneath the weight of his scrutiny.

"Because I wanted you to see," she answered simply.

Her words crashed into him with all the force of a freight train, and he shattered upon impact. Instinct took over, then, some deeper, more primal impulse setting aside the practiced restraint of his logical mind and reaching at once for the one thing he wanted most in all the world. In a single instant he had reached out and thrown the door shut behind him; the resounding thud of it slamming into place did not reach his ears, for by then he was already moving, covering the space between them until he could catch her by the hips, spin her round to face him.

She gasped at the suddenness of his attentions, the feel of his hands on her body, the way the pair of them crashed into one another, hips and bellies pressed tight together while he looked down at her in wonder and she stared up at him with a wild hope written in every line of her face.

"Please," he begged her, fingers curling round hard bone and tender flesh, satin and lace sliding beneath his palms while with every ragged breath she took their bodies pressed ever closer together. "Don't leave me, my darling."

Perhaps it was foolish, presumptuous, crass to speak those words to her, but they had tripped from his lips as easy as breathing, fallen out of his mouth before he could stop them. It was all that he wanted, to keep her by his side, to know that whatever he felt for her was returned in kind, to claim her for himself and give himself to her in turn, to call her, always, _my darling._ A sudden fire sparked in her eyes, and she reached up towards him. For a terrible instant he thought she meant to push him away, but she did no such thing, only caught his waistcoat in her hands and pulled him closer.

"Don't let me go," she whispered, and with a low groan of longing he fell into her, even as she surged up towards him, lips slotting into place as at last he kissed her as he had longed to do for months, fervently, desperately, madly.

It did not seem real, somehow, did not seem possible, that she could stand so comfortably in his embrace, wind her arms around his neck and open her lips beneath the press of his tongue, swallow his soft groan of want and return it with one of her own when his hands tightened against her hips. It did not seem possible that she could burn for him, as he did for her, that this same woman who had faced him not ten minutes before and told him she was determined to leave him could kiss him now as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And yet he seemed to find the answer to his every question in the way she softened beneath his touch, in the gentle words she had spoken to him, in the taste of her bursting against his lips as she returned his kiss with a ferocity that left him stunned and reeling.

Whatever her reasons for choosing to leave it was clear to him that she did not want to go, not truly, that she did not want him to let her slip from his grasp without protest, that she was relieved, as was he, that he had found the courage to face her before it was too late. And now, oh now, he was lost, utterly, completely swept away by her. She was so bloody beautiful, and he could not stop his hands from roaming, sliding beneath her satin slip to grasp once more at her hips, the rasp of soft lace against his palm and warm skin burning him beneath it.

_Because I wanted you to see, _she'd told him, and _Christ _but he wanted to see, wanted to see those scraps of fabric he'd only before glimpsed hanging limp on the clothesline now pulled taut across her pale skin, wanted to see _her, _in all her beauty, all her glory, wanted to see every secret she'd kept from him, every hope that she had invested in the possibility of their future together laid bare for his scrutiny and his delight. He wanted to look in that mirror and see the pair of them, tangled up and drunk on bliss, united as they always should have been.

And so he did not pause, not even for a moment. Her fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck and his hands traced the curve of her hip beneath her slip, rising up to trace the outline of her shape, her skin unbearably soft to the touch. He did not pause, did not hesitate, continued to move until he had gathered her slip in his hands and her arms rose above her head in a silent invitation. Whatever he wanted, it seemed she wanted as well, and his heart pounded so furiously at the thought he worried it might fail him. While he divested her of the slip still he kissed her, hungrily, messily, nipping at her full lips and delighting in the soft sound of surprise he drew from deep in the back of her throat, but the moment she was free he took a step back.

_I wanted you to see. _

And he could see, now. Could see those knickers, her pale skin plainly evident beneath the delicate lace. Could see the matching suspender belt highlighting the sharp tuck of her waist. Could see the matching bra and the way it hugged her shape like a second skin, the dusky rose of her nipples only just visible beneath the tantalizing screen of the insubstantial fabric. They fit her as if they'd been made for her, as if they'd been designed specifically to drive him mad, to draw his attention to every part of her, to make him long with everything he had to press his lips to her skin. As he drank in the sight of her she lifted her chin, dark curls bouncing with the movement of her head. There was a challenge in her gaze, as if she were daring him to find fault with her, but there was none to be found, or if there was Lucien was not the man to spot it. Everything about her was perfect to his mind, soft skin, soft belly, soft breasts, soft lips, soft hair, her passion, her brilliance, the fire of her spirit overwhelming him utterly. The black lace she had purchased for a moment such as this, knowing full well the effect it would have on him, the power it would give him over her, and he was left reeling, hopeless to resist her.

"You told me once," she said in a quiet voice, "to find the one thing I want for my future, and go for it."

The smile he gave her then was a tender one, for his heart was full of love for her at the memory. _I'm still not ready, _she'd told him, weeping. She had not been ready, then, and he had understood, had known that burying a spouse required more than a funeral, that Jean had more than memories to let go of before she could reach for anything more. _Is she ready now? _He asked himself as he looked at her, and he rather thought he had his answer already, for she would not have kissed him so soundly had she not already reached a decision on the matter.

"And what do you want, Jean?" he asked. Inference and circumspection had brought them nothing but grief, and he was determined to have his answers now, determined that they should both of them give voice to what had until now remained unspoken.

She stepped up close to him, pressed her palm to his chest and stared up at him with eyes wide and grey and stormy.

"I would have thought that was obvious." Still, she seemed uncertain, even now when he had kissed her, stripped her down to just her undergarments, when his hands gravitated to the smooth skin at the small of her back, unable to waste another moment not touching her. She seemed hesitant, unwilling to so plainly state her intentions, and he supposed he could not blame her. How long had it been, he wondered, since last she had found herself alone and half-naked with a man she wanted, a man who wanted her? How hard must it be for her, he asked himself, to accept such vulnerability when until now she had guarded her secrets so closely? It was a difficult position he had placed her in, he realized, forcing her to speak her desires before he had told her of his own, pushing her towards an intimacy that before this moment had been lost to the hazy recesses of her memory.

"Whatever you want," he told her breathlessly, "let me give it to you, Jean."

"What about you?" she asked, and though that doubt seemed to linger in her tone her body swayed toward him, drawn closer by the tightening of his grip upon her or perhaps her own inherent need to hear him say it outright. Perhaps she felt she had been brave enough for one evening, and the time had come for Lucien to divulge his own secrets.

"I want you," he whispered, his bravery rewarded by the little gasp that escaped her, by the way she swayed ever closer. "I want you here with me, my darling. Always."

It was torture, holding her so close and yet not kissing her, and perhaps she felt the same for even as he bowed his head she lifted her chin, and met him once more. There were not words for it, truly, for the fire her kiss lit low in his belly, for the need he felt to press himself against her until they melted in one creature, delighted and at peace. He could happily have kissed her for hours, for days if she would have let him; he could get by without food or sleep, but he could not survive without her kiss, not now that he knew the beauty of it, now that she had filled every corner of his soul with a desire that burned through him hotter than any flame.

As if drawn by some inexorable gravity his hands found their way to the supple flesh of her bum and the soft lace that covered her there, and as his grip tightened she mewled and thrust her hips against him, driven by the same instinct that compelled him. Her nails scratched lightly down the back of his neck and her teeth caught against his bottom lip, holding on until he was nearly mad with longing for her. He wanted her, needed her, had to have her, in any way she would allow, to whatever end, so long as first there was this, the taste of her and the softness of her beneath his hands. The man he'd been when he first came to this place, wild, rootless, broken, would never have imagined, even for a moment, that he would one day find himself in the little bedroom at the top of the stairs with this woman in his arms. The man he had been had not realized, at the first, just what a gift he had been given, in sharing his life with Jean Beazley. The man he had been had looked at her, and seen only sharp edges and a sharper tongue. The truth was something else entirely, something altogether more extraordinary. _She _was extraordinary.

He lifted her, easily, because he wanted to, because he wanted to know how she would respond if he did. His hands curled around her lean thighs and those thighs hugged him close, pulled him in hard against her center. The sudden change in their position brought her face on a level with his own, and he was grateful for it. When he lifted her he had seen that her eyes were closed in bliss, their lips still brushing errantly, missing their mark a time or two as they adjusted themselves, but in a moment her eyelashes fluttered, and then he was gazing into her eyes, as grey and stormy and boundless as the sea itself, and he could have wept, then, for the beauty of her, for the joy that filled him at the thought that however much he cared for her, she longed for him as well.

The moment stretched, shifted, softened into something less reckless than the fear and the fury that had led them to his point. With hands on her thighs he held her firm, lace and satin and the barest hint of her skin sliding beneath his palms; he did not think often of his own physicality, did not spend much time fretting over his appearance - one blue suit was much the same as any other, and the only reason he wore blue instead of black was that Mei Lin had told him once the color suited him - but in that moment he could not ignore the stark differences between them, was confronted at once with the breadth of his hand against her leg, the dainty press of her fingertips against the thick muscle of his neck. The tip of his nose brushed against the tip of hers, and she smiled, softly, a smile full of wonder, of hope, of happiness, such as he had never seen on her face before. And so he did it again, and this time, she laughed.

"My silly boy," she said, and the warmth of her voice, the affection he found in her then was nearly enough to make him weep.

"Yours," he answered. "Silly or not, I am yours. Though I fear I'm not much of a boy."

The grin she flashed at him then was one he had not seen before, mischievous and brave in a way he was sure she had not allowed herself to be for a many a long year, and it thrilled him to the core.

"No," she agreed breathlessly as her gaze raked over him in a manner that he found downright provocative. "You're not."

And what he could do then but kiss her? So he did, with relish, and she responded at once, lifting herself up just a little only to press down hard against him, all lips and tongue and unbearable heat. No, he was hardly a boy any longer, but with age had come experience, and patience and temperance - well, in certain areas, perhaps - and Lucien knew there was much he could offer her as a man he never could have imagined as a boy. And it seemed to him that Jean would not object, for she had accepted his every advance so far with grace and hunger, had not backed down from him or in any way tried to discourage him. He groaned aloud as her tongue curled around his own and a particularly well judged thrust of her hips caught against his aching hardness and sent a shiver coursing through the pair of them; no, she was not asking him to stop.

He took one step, and then another, and then much as it pained him to part from her, he laid her down gently atop the bed. For a moment he stood, enraptured by her; beneath him she stretched, lithe and catlike, raised her arms above her head and looked up at him from beneath the thick fan of her eyelashes. There was something in her gaze; insecurity, perhaps, though fleeting. She had been brave a moment before but she had not been lying prone beneath him on a bed a moment before, and he could understand why this change of pace might have alarmed her, however briefly. He reached for her, pressed one palm to the tender softness of her belly, hardly daring to blink lest this vision of her disappear forever in the instant his eyes closed. She had nothing to fear from him; he would not dare hurt her, and when he looked at her now he felt only love. There was nothing she could do, nothing she could say, nothing she could show him about herself that would disappoint him, for he had fallen so truly, madly, completely in love with the whole of her that even her faults were turned to glory in his eyes.

"I saw these," he dragged his hand over her belly and down until he reached lace, "on the line, outside."

The corner of her mouth quirked, ruefully almost, as if she had not known how the sight of those knickers inflamed him, as if it had not been her intention, as if she were telling herself even now that she should have known better.

"And they're beautiful," he continued, sitting down heavily on the bed beside her. They were beautiful, hand-crafted lace that swirled and spun into a pattern that called to mind a shower of rose petals, soft and delicate, the weave open enough to offer him the tantalizing glimpse of her skin beneath, and the slide of that fabric under his palm was beautiful, too. Stange, he thought, that he should be allowed to touch her now, when for so long he had thought such a blessing beyond his reach. He lifted himself, knelt there beside her, caught the span of her waist in his hands and bowed his head to press a kiss against the bare skin of her stomach.

"But _you_ are so beautiful, Jean. Just as you are."

He hoped he had found the right words, that she understood what he was trying to tell her. Hoped that she knew he loved her in satin and in lace, would love her bare or in a nun's habit, would love her no matter how she adorned herself, for it was _Jean, _and not the garments, that had captured his heart so entirely.

She reached for him as he spoke, fingertips tracing the rise of his cheeks, the line of his beard. His touch had been reverent, but so, too, was hers, gentle, exploring, full of wonder, of curiosity in way that made him shiver.

"Come here, Lucien," she urged him.

And so he did. They moved together, unable to speak for their mouths were much more pleasantly occupied with one another, and yet still, naturally, they found their way. Beneath him she spread her legs in invitation and he settled between them, kneeling while her thighs rose up to cradle his hips, while he rocked gently against her and they both of them lost their breath. Never, in all his life, had he wanted anything as badly as he wanted Jean in that moment. And perhaps, he thought, she wanted him, too, for as he kissed her she reached for his tie, delicate fingers picking the knot with an ease borne of practice while he settled himself more firmly against her. Resting his hands on either side of her head he held himself above her, tore himself from her lips to look down at her heaving breasts, straining against the lace that confined them, the faint blush painting her skin as exertion and desire took their toll.

With the tie undone she slid it from beneath his collar and cast it carelessly aside, and reached next for the buttons of his shirt. Though she had not spoken of it in words she did not need to, for she had made her desires plain, and Lucien was all too happy to oblige her. Content to let her strip him bare he held himself suspended above her, though he could not remain idle indefinitely with Jean beneath half-bare and beautiful beneath him and after a moment his lips found the curve of her neck.

She shivered like a racehorse prancing by the starting gate, sleek and eager to prove herself, and cast her head back against the pillows, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt and holding on desperately. She _liked _that, he realized, and he grinned, determined to find out just how very much she might enjoy his attentions. Brushing her hair aside with his nose he set to with a will, mapping the column of her throat, planting suckling kisses behind her ear, beneath her jaw. Each touch rewarded him with a new delight; a sigh, a gasp, a whimper, depending on the location and the intensity of his kisses. But then he sank his teeth against her neck, just a little, and she moaned, deep and wanting, bucked up hard against him while her nails bit at him through the thin fabric of his shirt where her hands curled against his chest. Her back arched, pressed the unbearable softness of her breasts ever closer to him, and so he only pursued her with more vigor, sucking lightly at her neck while she rocked beneath him, steadily falling apart. He was leaving a mark, and no doubt she knew it well as did he, but she seemed to be enjoying herself far too much to worry about such things now, and besides, she was a clever woman. She would find some way to hide it, he was certain, and it would be their own little secret, this thing he had not known about her minutes before but now had added to the endless list of things he loved about her.

When his work was finished he released her, lifted his head to gaze down at her, smiled a bit proudly as her eyes slowly opened, heavy with desire.

"All right, my darling?" he asked her. He rather thought he knew the answer to that question, but still, he wanted to be sure.

"All right," she agreed breathlessly, and reached once more for his buttons.

He did not leave another mark upon her, settled instead for watching her at her work while he reached behind him, caught one of her legs in his hands and trailed his palm against her stockings. How many times had he seen these things in the garden, stockings and slips and knickers and bras, seen them and wondered about the woman whose shape filled them each and every day, wondered if he would ever be granted a mercy such as the one he now enjoyed? Too many times, he thought, and yet his imaginings had never come close to the transcendence of the truth. He unclasped her stocking with deft hands, rolled it smoothly down her leg, but then she was finished with his buttons, demanding his attentions as she tried to free him from his shirt.

He cast the stocking over his shoulder and then gave in to her insistence, shrugged himself free from his shirt. That, too, he threw aside, and Jean's fingertips pressed against his skin as she slid her hand beneath his vest, catching the fabric against her wrists and drawing it up as her palms ran over his body from his waist to his shoulders. And then the vest was gone, and he was kneeling over her half-bare, and her smile then was quite the most radiant thing he'd ever seen. Her hands danced over his chest and stomach; hard muscle and old scars she explored with the kind of devotion he had only ever dreamed of receiving, and to think that a woman as fine and lovely as Jean could look at _him_ this way was almost more than he could bear. He did not want to ruin the moment with his own battered heart, and so he only leaned down to kiss her. She still wore one of her stockings, and so while his lips were occupied with hers his hand gravitated to her leg, to clasps and nylon and the promise of her skin. Slowly, ever so slowly he dragged the stocking down the unbearably perfect curve of her leg, but he did not watch the movement of his own hand, for his eyes were closed in bliss and her tongue was curling inside his mouth and her hips were rocking against him and _oh, _but this moment was more perfect than anything he had ever experienced before.

The moment he had disposed of her second stocking he settled his weight upon his knees and slid both his hands beneath her, caught the generous swell of her bum and held on tight, pulling her hips towards him with a hunger. The sight of her, the taste of her, the sounds of her bliss, the thought of having her at last had left him almost unbearably hard, and he wanted her to know it, wanted her to feel it, wanted them to press and grind and lose themselves in one another. Her breaths were sharp and panting, her body tense but responding eagerly to his touch, allowing him this mercy; he could have cursed his trousers for the barrier they formed between himself and her own tender heat but she was far more exposed and he knew she could feel it, could feel him, straining for her, desperate to lose himself inside her. He rather though she wanted that, too, for she rocked in time to the kneading motion of his hands and whimpered, once, softly, as the friction they generated between them threatened to undo her. With one hand he held her firm but the other wandered, followed the curve of her body to the soft black fabric that covered her center, let his palm press against her through her knickers. He could not see the shape of her, could not see the delights that waited for him there but he could hear her gasp, high and sweet, could feel her press into his touch, could feel that beneath that fabric she was hot and slippery already, and he could not stand to be separated from her another moment more.

It only took a moment, to free her from that scrap of lace. She lifted her hips and let him peel it away, and as he tossed it aside she reached behind and unfastened her bra of her own accord. Their clothes made a merry heap, there at the side of the bed, and he thought again how nice they looked together, how they seemed to have been destined to share their time, their space, their lives. For a moment she lay beneath him, still and naked, watching him as he stared at her. He could only stare, for in truth she was so lovely that he became suddenly convinced he did not deserve her, that he was not worthy to touch her, to share these secrets she had trusted to him. Her skin was dotted with freckles, a scar down low on her hip, her breasts and stomach soft and tender with age, and all of it, all of her, was lovely.

He took a deep breath, and then once more dropped his hands to the bed, keeping his weight off her as he bowed his head, and traced the curve of her breast with his lips. She sighed, happily, and threaded her fingers through his hair, held him close against her skin while he explored the shape of her, while he did his best to learn everything he could about her and her and her desires. There was such joy in this, this honesty they shared, in the thought that there was anything, anything at all he could do to make her happy. His lips wrapped around the tight-furled bud of her nipple, his tongue circling it, flicking at it, suckling her until she was moaning, deep and needy, her hips swaying beneath him hungrily. He was not done with her, not by a mile, so he released her and continued on his way, dragged the flat of his tongue against the underside of her breast, rewarded with the sharp intake of her breath and the arching of her back, pressing herself more firmly against him.

For quite some time he lingered there, her tender breasts reddening beneath the press of his lips and the rasp of his beard, sighs and gasps tripping from her lips, each of them echoing in his heart like some cheery chorus of bells. This thing he could do for her, could please her, and nothing would please him more. Still her hands sifted through his hair, tracing down the line of his neck and back up again, her gentle touch reassuring him more than anything else. He could not stop here, however; there was a goal yet to be attained, a bliss as yet only imagined, and he was determined to deliver it to them both.

Carefully Lucien shuffled down the bed, caught her thighs in his hands and leaned into her, breathing in the scent of her arousal, hesitating for just a moment, waiting for her admonishment or her enticement. She only canted her hips towards him, her breathing ragged and loud as thunder in the silence between them. Sure of her encouragement now still he lingered, looking down at her, the soft thatch of dark curls beckoning him, her folds red and slippery with want, and beautiful; _Jean, _waiting for him, sharing herself with him. He could imagine nothing more wonderful than this, than her, and so at last he lowered himself until he could trace her folds with his tongue. At the first brush of his mouth against her she tensed, but he carried on, gently, until she was relaxing against him, pressing up in silent invitation as she buried her face in the pillows to stifle the sound of her longing. His hands held fast to her thighs even as he continued his exploration of her, delving inside her just enough to have her shivering, working his lips over her again and again until his name was a constant chant from her lips. At last he took mercy on her, gathered the little bundle of nerves at her center between his lips and laved her with his tongue, suckled her gently until she was whimpering, and then gasping, and then crying out into the pillow, bucking against his face, her sex fluttering in desperation. He eased a single finger inside her, thrust against her, curled just so and continued on until at last she broke, the sight and the sound and the taste of her nearly enough to have him coming undone himself. Still he kissed her, his tongue caressing her until she reached down blindly to tangle her fingers in his hair, tugging gently. Lucien smiled against her overheated flesh but followed her unspoken command, sliding up the bed to stretch himself out over her, bowing his head to brush a kiss against her lips.

"_Lucien," _she whispered, her hands curling around the waistband of his trousers, catching hold and pulling his hips down into hers even as her thighs tightened against him, and he understood at once what it was she was asking of him, what it was she wanted in this moment.

"My darling," he answered simply. He kissed her once more and then lifted himself up, wrangled with his trousers and trunks until at last he could toss them both aside. Jean rolled towards him, then, her leg draping over his broad thigh, her hand resting on his chest, her chin on his shoulder. He waited, wanting to see what she might do now that he was as bare as she, now that they were so much closer to one another than they had ever been before. Her hand drifted over his chest, fingertips dancing across his skin, while she watched him with such depth of understanding that for one mad moment he felt as if she could read his every thought.

"I don't want to leave you," she told him as her hand drifted past his hipbone and rational thought threatened to escape him.

"Then why did you-" he could not finish his sentence for her delicate hand had wrapped around his rock-hard shaft, and he had to grit his teeth to keep himself under control. She smiled at him, sadly, knowingly, even as she held him so intimately.

"You didn't try to stop me," she confessed. "I thought you didn't want me."

A rather crass response to those words floated through his mind; after all, at that very moment she had her hand wrapped around his cock and he could still taste her release against his lips, and surely now there could be no doubt just how very much he wanted her.

"I want you to be happy," he told her breathlessly.

Her hand moved, glided over and over him, left him shaking and tense and almost at the breaking point of his own restraint.

"Then make me happy, Lucien," she whispered.

That was the end of his restraint. With a growl he rolled over her, strong hands arranging her beneath him without a moment's hesitation. His lips crashed into hers, his tongue surged into her mouth, his hand wrapped hard around the tender flesh of her thigh and drew it up so that he could thrust himself against her dripping center. She was shaking, but not, he knew, from fear; she curled that leg tight around his hip and pulled him into her, ground herself against him, desire sparking through his veins as he realized just how close she was, how wet she was, how the time had finally come. Despite the sudden fury of his advances it was Jean who reached between them, once more caught his cock in her hand, this time with a purpose. She lifted her hips and held him just so, and he followed the guidance of her hand, sinking inside her bit by glorious bit. Velvet heat wrapped around him and he was helpless to do more than groan and press himself still harder into her; Jean seemed to feel it, too, as if this thing between them had taken on a life of its own, for her arms wrapped around him and held him close as she gave herself over to the feeling of it. Gentle, he wanted to be gentle, and slow, but he had waited so long for her already, and with every thrust of his hips some new, delightful sound left her lips and _oh, _but she felt so good, so right, so much better than anything, anyone had ever felt before.

They found a rhythm, somehow; her thigh sweaty and tight against his hip, his own hand diving back down to clutch at her bum and guide her movements, the thick length of his cock sliding deeper, and deeper into her warmth, until their bodies were flush together and they were both gasping and elated. They moved together, point and counterpoint, her panting breaths painting the skin of his shoulder, and all he could see, all he could hear, all he could think was _her_. The wild thrusting of his hips gathered strength and speed, and she only urged him on, _oh, _and _please_ the only words her lips could form, a nonsensical liturgy of the faith she carried in him, in them, more beautiful than anything he had heard before. _Please, _she begged him, and he gave her everything he could, exerting every ounce of his strength, dedicating every piece of himself to this, to making her happy. Grinding down against her center in a way he knew would please her, kneading her bum in time to the powerful thrust of his hips, he sought only to make her happy.

And it seemed that he was succeeding, for her body began to tense, her back arching, her nipples brushing against the sparse hair of his chest, sweaty skin sliding, hot and sweet and _close_, and her walls clenched down hard against his aching length and drew a string of curses from his lips. Like a man possessed he drove within her fluttering heat, chasing the ever-rising chorus of her cries, and then, oh then her nails bit into the scarred flesh of his back and she threw her head back in bliss, and bore down so hard upon him that there was nothing left for him to do but surge within her until his own release found him in the midst of hers, emptying himself deep inside her with a strangled groan.

Gasping and feeling lighter than he had in a year Lucien rolled to the side and gathered her into his arms, his sweet, beautiful Jean. She wrapped both of her thighs around one of his and laid her head against his chest, and for several long minutes neither of them spoke. They simply lay, sticky and sweaty and exhausted and deliriously, hopelessly in love with one another, their proximity now a gift all its own. As he regained some control of his faculties he allowed his hand to drift over the unbearable softness of her back, and in response she hummed, and pressed a kiss against his chest.

In every way she had surpassed his expectations, had laughed in the face of every assumption he had ever made about her and shown herself to be _more_, so much more, in every possible regard, and he could not doubt now that he loved her, that he had loved her for months, that he would go on loving her for all the rest of his days. Whether the time was right for him to tell her so he was less sure, but he was spared the agony of making that decision by the quiet sound of her voice.

"I do have to leave, Lucien," she said. "I promised my son."

"I know," he answered heavily. His arms tightened their hold on her and her legs tightened around his thigh and for one mad moment he wished to god that he were twenty again, if only so he could roll her beneath him and take her once more.

"But I don't have to stay away," she continued, and in her voice he heard the smile he could not see.

"I want to be with you, Jean," he told her seriously. "If you feel you ought to stay in Adelaide, you have only to say the word and I will join you there."

"You know, you really are a sweet man when you want to be," she told him fondly. "But no. I don't want to stay there. This is our home, Lucien."

_Our home, _she'd said, and it struck him then how right she was. This house, this town, this place was _theirs, _the home they had made together, and it was only right that they share it. With a sudden burst of strength that surprised even him Lucien sat up, and pulled Jean with him, gathered her into his arms until she was sitting on his lap, her thighs on either side of his hips and his spent cock against her still-damp center, her eyes looking down on him in wonder.

"Marry me, Jean," he said. The shock was evident upon her face; her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open as if to protest, but he carried on, heedless. "Go and see to Christopher. Stay as long as you need to. And when you're ready, come back here and be my wife." With one hand he reached for her, cradled her cheek in his palm and pled his case as earnestly as he could. "I meant what I said, Jean. I want you with me, always. These last few weeks, imagining life without you...how much time have we wasted? I want to tell you the truth, always, and the truth is that I love you, and nothing would make me happier in this world than to marry you."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and hopeful, and Lucien held his breath as he waited for her response. Her gaze was open, thoughtful as she regarded him, her hands reaching for him just as his own had done, as if she, too, could not stand to spend another minute not touching him.

"Are you sure, Lucien?" she asked him seriously.

The question was a heavy one, and Lucien took his time in formulating an answer. He knew how this must look to her, asking her such a thing when they were in such a compromising position, when he had only just made his feelings known to her. No doubt it seemed reckless, impulsive to someone as circumspect as Jean, but Lucien knew better. She had been as good as his wife from the moment he moved into this house, not by virtue of the work she did in maintaining his life but in the tender way she had cared for his heart, encouraged him to be a better man, become his partner in all things. They were wed in all ways except the one that mattered most, and Lucien wanted that now, wanted her to share his bed and his confidences, all of them, wanted to hold her hand and whisper in her ear as she drifted off into dreams, wanted to protect her, cherish her, love her, always, and never again pretend he did not need her with everything he had.

"I am," he said solemnly. "Marry me, Jean."

She smiled at him then and he knew her answer before she spoke.

"Yes," she breathed, and then she was kissing him, and they did not speak again for quite some time.


	9. Chapter 9

Lucien felt himself sink in to the pillows beneath him, his eyes closed, his body loose and sated and weak as a newborn kitten. His hands were resting against the unbearable softness of Jean's back, but it was not so much a desire to hold her that kept them there; he wasn't entirely sure he could move his arms. And it seemed that Jean was equally as exhausted for she lay draped across him like a blanket, her head resting on his shoulder while her lean thighs still hugged his hips. There was no thought in his head, no trouble in his heart; there was only this, Lucien and Jean together, and the joy and the peace and the hope that they brought to one another.

More than a year had passed since that beautiful night when he first held her close, that night when he'd finally found the courage to propose to her, and she had found the courage to accept. A year of waiting, for Jean had been quite adamant that while _it was lovely, Lucien, truly, _it would not be seemly for them to tumble into bed a second time. A year of waiting, while Jean first saw to her son's family in Adelaide and then returned to him with the faintest hint of doubt in her shining eyes, as if she worried that while she'd been away he'd changed his mind about marrying her. A year of waiting, while Lucien did his very best to woo her, with flowers and kisses and many a dance through the sitting room. A year of waiting, of planning, of frustration borne of the separation Jean had imposed upon them, and finally, it was done.

She was, at long last, his wife. The ceremony had been beautiful, he was sure, because Jean had planned every bit of it, and she always knew just what was needed, what was right. For his part Lucien had hardly taken note of a word of it, so enraptured was he by the sight of Jean, his Jean, in her soft satin dress with its delicate lace sleeves and the row of tiny pearl buttons following the length of her spine. His Jean, dressed in white, beautiful and serene and holding his hand, smiling at him softly while she spoke the old words in a clear voice. _To have and to hold, from this day forward..._From this day, until his last day, Jean would be his to hold, to love, to cherish. Those days stretched out in front of him now, long and sweet and full of promise. They would be, always, together, and he could think of no better future for himself.

The party after had been quite grand, he supposed. There had been flowers and wine and fine food and music, _oh, _the music; they had danced, more than once, twirled round and round the polished floor, her hand in his and his eyes on her face, always. She had smiled at him so beautifully, and leaned into his embrace, and the feel of her warm and soft and _close_ against him had ignited a fire in his veins that no power on earth could extinguish. A year he'd spent, remembering how glorious it had felt to lose himself inside her at last, remembering in exquisite detail every inch of her, the way she had, without hesitation, given herself over to the moment. And as they danced all he could think was how lucky he was, to share his life with such a woman, to have her in his home, his bed, for all the rest of his days.

The time had come and he had whisked her away amidst a flurry of good wishes from their friends and family - Jack had not put in an appearance for the wedding, but young Christopher and Ruby had made the trek up from Adelaide with little Amelia in tow, much to Jean's delight - and taken her back here, to the newly converted studio, to the room that would be _theirs_, now, always.

He had intended to take his time with her, to press his lips against the back of her neck and slowly, teasingly unfasten each and every one of those buttons, but the moment the door closed behind them he had claimed her lips in a passionate kiss, and it had become immediately apparent that long and slow was not in the cards for them. Not now, not tonight, not after a year of waiting. Perhaps Jean had anticipated such a turn, for as it happened she'd had a plan for them as well, a plan she was able to execute with far more grace than Lucien had demonstrated.

For all the rest of his days he would remember it, the way she had slipped from his grip and whispered softly _wait, _cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. She'd danced from the room and left Lucien all alone, staring at the door she'd gently closed behind her, wondering if he'd made a misstep, if he should have tempered his advances. There was no need to worry, of course; she returned to him a few minutes later, and his knees had gone weak at the sight of her. He'd sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands curled into fists and resting on his thighs, as ever so slowly she closed the distance between them, this angel who was his bride.

"Well?" she'd asked as she drew ever closer. "Do you like it?"

There were not words, he thought, for how much he _liked_ the vision she'd presented. Jean had taken the time to pluck the pins from her hair and wash the makeup from her face, had taken the time to slip out of her beautiful dress and all the myriad complicated undergarments she'd worn beneath it, and she had come to him dressed, quite deliberately, in hardly anything at all. A soft white satin negligee, the lace-edged hem just barely kissing the swell of her bum, the décolletage lace as well, the hard-furled buds of her nipples visible beneath it. The fabric hugged her figure, highlighted the curve of her hip and the tuck of her waist, and as she approached he realized she wore no stockings, either. Only Jean could be both practical and erotic at once, and he'd thanked his lucky stars for her then.

"You are exquisite, my darling," Lucien had managed to say. He was quite proud of that; even now - quite some time later - he wasn't entirely sure how he'd found the strength to form the words. Jean had come to him, stood between his knees and rested her hands upon his shoulders, watched him through hooded eyes as his hands slipped beneath the negligee and reached for her hips. More lace waited for him there, white to match the rest of it, and barely enough to cover her. Before he knew it she had settled upon his lap, and his tongue had surged into her mouth, and then…

Then bliss, and heat, and a mad scramble, the soft, lilting sound of her cries as she rocked against him, as he thrust up into her, blindly, desperately. There had not been time enough to speak, had not been time enough to remove that scrap of lace between her legs; he had tugged the fabric to the side and she had sunk down upon him with a long, heady moan, and the scratch of the lace between them had only increased the frenzy of their passions. It was beautiful, and honest, the way they gave and took from one another in that place, but it was quick, too, and he felt just a little bit guilty about that now, now when he lay with his slowly softening cock buried in her tender heat, while her panting breaths slowed to a more reasonable tempo. She deserved time, and care, and reverence, but the sight of her walking towards him, dressed to entice him - when in truth he needed no enticement, not where his Jean was concerned - had spun them both off into delirium.

Now, though, now rational thought was returning, and with it a desire to offer his beautiful wife more than she had so far received.

As carefully as he could Lucien rolled her over, encouraged her to lie on her back while he pressed himself against her side, his hand rising up as if of its own accord to cup her breast where the negligee had been tugged down low to reveal it. She hummed, softly, her eyes closed while a smile played around her lips.

"I hadn't meant to be in such a hurry," he said, somewhat apologetically, but Jean arched her back ever so slightly, pressed herself more fully into his touch while her nipple pebbled beneath his palm and his fingernail scraped lightly against the curve of her breast.

"We have all the time in the world, Lucien," she answered him, finally opening her eyes to gaze at him in wonder. "You're my husband, now." As she spoke she reached for him, cradled his cheek in her palm with a touch that warmed his heart.

"My beautiful wife," he said, turning his head to kiss her palm. For a moment he simply lay there, touching her, feeling her touch him, savoring the closeness between them, but he had moved her with a purpose and at last he rose, settled himself on his knees so that he could take in the full of effect of his wife, disheveled and satisfied. Slowly, painstakingly slowly he trailed his hands over her body, beginning at her calves. He drew his hands along her soft skin, and her thighs fell open for him, as if in invitation. This was new, this slow, exploitative sort of intimacy, and he reveled in it, committing every detail of her to memory. The slope of her leg, the warm slide of her skin beneath his hand, the way her breathing began to speed up the higher his hands drifted. The yielding softness of her lean thighs, the lace hem of the negligee catching against his wrist and rising up as he moved, every heartbeat full of joy.

When he reached her hips he gathered the negligee in his hands and she moved with him, helped him to tug it up and off her until he could cast it to the side and stare down at her in wonder. There were not words for this, he thought, the nature of his love masking her every flaw, highlighting her every asset to its full advantage. His love of her was a living, breathing thing, and it grew with each passing second as he took in the sight of her. _This_ was Jean, without artifice, closer to fifty than forty, a woman who had lived a life full of hardship and loss, and yet survived it all with a dignity that left him speechless. _This_ was Jean, the most honest, most vulnerable truth of her. This was his wife, who lay before him, who let him drink his fill of her calmly and without protest, as if she could understand exactly what impulse possessed him to sit still and reverent by her side.

And yet she was not completely bare; the knickers remained, slung low over her hips. She was a little thing, his Jean, and though her stomach was soft when she laid before him like this the hard points of her hips jutted towards him, and he bowed his head and kissed her there, on one side and then the other, his chin glancing against the bridge of lace between them when he moved. These knickers were not meant to be worn every day, or even for more than an hour; they were meant, solely, specifically, to be seen, enjoyed, and promptly removed, and she had bought them for just this purpose. For him, for them, to enjoy together. Lucien smiled at the thought, the thought that Jean had planned this, yearned for this as much as he himself had done, and pressed a kiss against her belly in silent thanks.

Those knickers were meant to be seen, and they were lovely, but right now they mattered less to him than what they covered. He curled his fingers around the elastic and Jean lifted her hips, let him slide that scrap of lace down her legs and cast it carelessly onto the floor.

Now, at last, she was bare. He moved then, intent on sliding up her body and kissing her until they both fell into dreams, but Jean stopped him with hands against his shoulders. As she touched him he stilled, waiting anxiously to see what she might do, but there was no cause for alarm; she only sat up, and reached for his trousers.

"I want to see you, too," she said, smiling.

It took rather longer for Jean to extricate Lucien from the last of his clothes than it had taken him to strip her bare; he dutifully rolled onto his back and let her tug his trousers down his legs, laughing when they tangled on his foot. Once the trousers had been dealt with she slid back up the bed, rested her hands on his hips over the soft material of his black trunks for a moment. Then she grinned, wickedly, and traced her fingertips over his spent cock, hanging through the opening at the front, and despite his firm belief that he could not rally for her a second time he groaned in bliss at the sensation. She laughed, delighted, and leaned over to press her lips against his chest, just for a moment. Then it was back to business, it seemed, for she turned her attentions back to stripping him bare, and in a moment he was as naked as she, open for her perusal and utterly at her mercy.

He lay back and let her look her fill, repayment, he supposed, for the way she had so graciously allowed his attentions. When was the last time, he wondered, a woman had looked at him the way Jean did now? In truth, he was not sure anyone ever had, not like this. He knew his body, knew the strength of his muscles and the way his belly had gone soft with age, knew the shape of every scar and the nature of their making. He knew the matter of what she saw, when she looked at him, but not the nature of it. He remembered the way his love of her had made her glow beneath him, and he could hardly imagine anyone on earth feeling such sublime desire when they looked upon him. And yet there was something in Jean's eyes, something warm and wanting, that told him that perhaps he was wrong on that score.

"I love you, Lucien," she said softly, her hands coming to rest on his broad thighs.

It was truly a wonderful thing, he thought, to hear her say such words to him, with such gentle conviction.

"And I love you, my darling," he answered her. _More than anything in this world. _

She smiled at him, radiant, delighted, and as quick as he could he rose up, gathered her into his arms and kissed her with everything he had.

And as they slid back down amongst the pillows, skin-on-skin and nothing to separate them, he reckoned himself quite the luckiest man in the world.


	10. Chapter 10

_Six months later…_

There was rather a lot less laundry to do, these days. Shortly after the wedding Mattie had set off for her next grand adventure, a priceless opportunity to work in London and further her career and education. Jean had wished the girl well, though her heart had ached the day she sent Mattie off, as fiercely as it had done when her boys had left home, each in their own time. In many ways Mattie had been as good as a daughter to Jean - to Jean and Lucien both - and though Jean was immensely proud of her it had still been hard to let her go. Charlie had flown from the nest not long after; he had only moved across town, and still visited regularly for supper. Though he would never dream of saying it outright Jean had gotten the distinct impression that he had been somewhat uncomfortable sharing his lodging with two starry-eyed newlyweds, and she supposed it was only natural. And though she herself would likewise never admit it, she was grateful to him for leaving as painlessly as he did, for she valued her privacy quite highly, now, treasured the little world she and Lucien had carved out for themselves in that house, far away from the prying eyes of the town.

As she stepped out into the garden a little smile tugged at the corner of her lips, for there he was, her Lucien, stretched out on the lounge with his hat covering his face, apparently asleep and happy as a cat in the sunshine. For a moment she considered going to him, setting down her empty laundry basket and settling herself across his lap, waking him with gentle kisses all over his dear, sweet face. She was allowed such indulgences, now, could touch him whenever, however she pleased, could welcome his touches and not feel the need to shy away for the sake of a long forgotten propriety. He was _hers_, now, this beautiful, brilliant man, and every wall that had ever separated them had long since tumbled into ruins.

She did not wake him, in the end; when the laundry was done she would need to start preparing their supper, and he had time, yet, to linger, indolent and endearingly messy on the lounge, with his jacket and waistcoat discarded and his tie askew. He had only that morning wrapped up a case with Matthew Lawson, and Jean felt he could use the rest, the chance to begin to recover from what had in truth been a harrowing fortnight as he and Matthew struggled to bring the killer to justice. All was well, now, and Lucien was home where he belonged, safe and at peace. _Let him sleep, _she told herself, taking one more moment to smile at him fondly before making her way to the clothesline.

A bedsheet hung closest to hand and so Jean reached for it first, testing the fabric to be sure it was dry before taking it down and dropping it in her basket. She would gather the clothes together, take them inside to fold them and neatly stack them away, and then she would make their supper; her hands moved of their own accord while her mind wandered to the tasks ahead. It was an adjustment, re-learning how to make meals for two, instead of four or five or six. For so long the house had been full of people, Danny and Mattie, Charlie and Rose, Matthew and Alice. Oh, they all still visited; Matthew and Alice had a standing invitation to dinner every Friday night, and those meals were always full of laughter and warm conversation. But today was only Tuesday, and it would just be she and Lucien, sitting together at the table, talking softly amongst themselves. There had been rather a long stretch of time when Jean had no one to feed but herself and Thomas Blake, and those old memories came back to her often now, as she shared her meals with Lucien instead of his father.

It was a very different atmosphere, to be sure; she and Thomas had gotten on quite well, and she had respected and admired the man, but their roles had been distinct, and they had both been mindful of their positions. Lucien, though; she _loved_ Lucien, adored him, delighted in him, ached for him. Their meals were not quiet and polite; sometimes he would steal bits of food off her plate with a mischievous grin, or slide his hand along her thigh beneath her skirt until neither of them could stand it a moment longer and they raced off to the studio laughing, breathless, free. Sometimes they didn't make it that far; sometimes Lucien came in the door and hung his hat upon the peg and pressed himself along the the length of her back, reached around her to turn off the stove while his lips trailed against her neck, and they found themselves falling together without a care in the world. Nights like that, when they were finished and exhausted and clinging to one another wherever they fell - against the kitchen counter, on the sofa in the sitting room, in their bed, if their restraint had carried them that far - Lucien would laugh, and kiss her cheek, and make his way to the kitchen naked as the day he was born to fetch them both a bite of toast. Sometimes Jean thought she liked those nights best, for no meal had ever tasted sweeter than a bit of toast and butter, eaten while she lay nestled in her husband's embrace.

Her thoughts had wandered there beneath the warm sunshine, and she did not immediately notice that something was amiss. Bedsheets and towels and shirts she had gathered up and tossed into her basket, thinking about Lucien's hands and the two rather fine cuts of steak she had procured from the butcher earlier in the day, but then she reached for the next garment on the line, and paused.

It had not been there when Jean had hung the clothes out to dry in the morning, of that she was certain. She had in fact never seen it before in her life, and she was sure she would have remembered something as fine as this. Her hands trembled, ever so slightly, as she reached for it, her heart racing as she studied it and pondered the implications of its sudden appearance on her clothesline.

Lace slid through her fingers, soft and delicately made, a deep, rich shade of purple. Jean had never in her life owned a bra in that color, had never even considered it; it hardly seemed practical, to choose such a daring shade. But _this _bra hung on the line, pinned just as neatly as everything else Jean had placed out there earlier in the day. The cups were not lined, and she knew at once that, should she choose to wear it, it would hide nothing at all. It was not made to be _practical_; it was made to be _seen, _and a shiver raced down her spine at the very thought. It was rather daringly cut, the band narrow and lacy as the rest of it, the straps crossing at the back, the cups forming a deep V that would leave rather a lot of skin on show. A tiny little bow sat at the center of that V, and Jean brushed her fingertips across it, already imaging how it would look against her own pale skin.

She had not hung the bra here, but she fancied she knew exactly who was responsible for its unexpected appearance. Perhaps that was why Lucien had come out here in the first place, she thought, wanting to watch her as she discovered his gift, only he had fallen asleep, and was even now missing the show. _I'll have to make it up to him, _Jean thought, grinning; she decided there and then that she would pull everything else down first, and leave Lucien's gift on the top of the basket. She would slip into the house as quietly as she could, race for the studio and change out the faded white satin bra she wore for the delicate piece her husband had purchased. She would tease him relentlessly all through dinner, feeling the scratch of the lace against her skin, while Lucien had no way to know what was waiting for him. And then, when he could stand no more, she would let him reach for the buttons of her blouse, let him slide them free, one by one, until at last he could see…

_Oh, yes,_ she thought. That would make for a nice evening indeed.

So she carried on, intent on gathering up the last of the clothes as quickly as she could, but almost immediately she was forced to stop again, for it seemed that the bra was not the only gift Lucien had left for her. A little further down there hung a matching pair of knickers, lacy and transparent, in that same lustrous shade. The bra was enticing, but the knickers were downright scandalous; there was hardly anything to them! They would sit low, well below her bellybutton, even, but _oh, _she could see already that they would suit the curve of her body well, would show off every inch of her to its best effect. These things Lucien had bought for her, beautiful things, and she knew it was his love of her that compelled him, as much as his own desire to see her practically bare and covered only by the briefest scraps of lace.

So many gifts he had given her, since the day they wed, but the greatest of them all had been his true, unwavering love of her. In every way he had shown his devotion to her, had curbed his more dangerous impulses insofar as he was able and endeavored to be home in time for supper every night, to fall asleep beside her every night, as he was meant to. He had played songs for her on the piano and danced her round the sitting room and listened with rapt attention while she told him of her heart, her history, her dreams. Those dreams he had taken into his gentle hands, and made reality, one by one. She had been to Paris, and they would journey to London at Christmas, and he had loved her, well and truly, in the way she had always longed for.

And now this. This reminder of the depth of his desire, delivered on a Tuesday, a day that could not have been more unremarkable, for no reason other than that he wanted to, that he wanted _her_, that he wanted them both to be happy; what a dear man he was, this love of hers.

"Do you like it?" Jean nearly jumped out of her skin at the unexpected sound of his voice, the two strong arms that wrapped around her waist while his chin came to rest against her shoulder.

"They're beautiful, Lucien," she answered, leaning back against the solid plane of his chest, every nerve in her body shocked into wakefulness by the sudden sensation of his warmth, enveloping her utterly.

"You're beautiful," he answered her, his lips tickling the shell of her ear. "And you deserve beautiful things."

Jean turned, the laundry forgotten now, and slid her arms around his neck and let herself melt against him, hips and bellies slotting into place as they held one another. In that moment Jean wanted, very much, to tell him that he was the most beautiful thing of all, to tell him how she loved him, loved his tender heart and his strong hands, loved the painfully handsome lines of his face and the heartbreaking scars that laced his back. She wanted to tell him many things, but then he bowed his head to kiss her, and every thought left her head at once until she was operating by sensation alone, chasing the beautiful heat of his mouth and the bliss he promised her with every languid movement of his body.

They abandoned the laundry, then, and the beautiful bra and knickers, too, for Lucien and Jean were hungry for one another, and such concerns could be left for another time. She did not need his gifts, to know that she loved him, and she supposed he did not need them either, to prove how much he desired her; they made it no farther than the sunroom, collapsing together on the sofa with Jean sprawled across his lap, pressing promises of devotion into one another's skin with reverent hands and fervent lips until at last they were both of them spent, and happy, and the sun had sunk low on the horizon. They had toast for dinner that night, and fell into bed together, wrapped up tight and close and finally, mercifully at peace, as they always should have been.


End file.
